


Mirys: The Green Prince I

by BoopBoopMagnus



Category: Mirys
Genre: Adventure, Battle, Elves, English, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, Fiction, Fighting, Gen, High Fantasy, Lore - Freeform, Magic, Medieval, Mystery, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Original work - Freeform, War, mirys - Freeform, original creatures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27982158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoopBoopMagnus/pseuds/BoopBoopMagnus
Summary: An act of jealous betrayal that sends the youngest of a bloodline into the middle of someone else's civil war, with a future unclear and few means to survive. Young, lacking the title accustomed to him and the wisdom of his peers, he may be the end to the civil war - for better or for worse.A high fantasy book series, each mini-series of Mirys follows different sets of characters as they fight and find their way in a world heaving with unbalance, barely-kept and catastrophic secrets, and many people fighting on both sides.  Civil Wars, lies, secrets, moral questions, fights for independence and redemption; people of good and bad character - thieves and scholars, treasure-hunters and nobility, enslaved and slavers fighting for their outcome in a world falling apart at the seams... literally.
Kudos: 3





	1. Glossary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Requiem16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Requiem16/gifts), [My parents](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+parents).



_In Alphabetical Order:_

**Gressyk** \- A country composed of five kingdoms, laying in the western half of the world, northern hemisphere.

**Ixynn Kingdom** \- One of five Folken kingdoms in Gressyk, lead by the Serpent Council. The head of the Serpent Council is Jaldien Rush.

**Jaldien Rush** \- Head of the Serpent Council. She and her fraternal twin are the eldest of Kessian's siblings; she is a twenty-one year old woman. Leader of Ixynn Kingdom in Gressyk.

**Jorgoff Kauffsen** \- Servant of the Green Prince. A main protagonist of the book, a fifteen cycle old boy. Personal servant to Kessian Rush.

**Kessian Rush** \- The Green Prince. A main protagonist of the book, a twelve cycle old boy. A prince of Ixynn, from Gressyk.

**Moon Cycle** \- A Myrian year, most commonly used in reference to age.

**Mother** \- A word used to refer to a creature living in Shra's Citadel.

**Mirys** \- The name of this fictional world.

**Shra** \- A country south of Gressyk, composed of two islands. Composed of only one major city and a couple of non-nomadic civilizations, while the rest of the Shrian population live in "barbaric" nomadic tribes.

**The Serpent Council** \- The ruling council of Ixynn, in Gressyk. The council is composed of the royal siblings of a generation. When the book starts, the eldest are twenty-one and the youngest are twelve.

**Tor'Shra** \- The smaller island off the immediate coast of Shra. This island has been entirely enslaved, by Shra.

**Yetsh Bo-Hus** \- Bodyguard of the Green Prince. A main protagonist of the book, a thirty-two cycle old woman. Personal bodyguard to Kessian Rush.


	2. Chapter One: Two Headed Snake

The thick yellowed pages of an old, time-curled tome, swaddled in the warm orange of flickering candlelight in the space of an old study. To some, this is an image of comfort, familiar smells, and a gentle reminder of all those words we lose ourselves in as the time slips by. For others, however, it brings only irritation, because where books lead, studying follows...

"There are many types of Folk in this world, but for as many Folk there are, there have been many times more Fae. They came in any shape, size, color, and form. They could look like a tiger or like a human, but no matter what there was always–" and with a thump and a sigh, the heavy shell of the book was snapped shut. The hands holding it irreverently let the old tome fall onto the well-polished desk, the owner of the hands folding them and leaning back in the equally cared-for chair. "I don't see why I need to read this, Gjirdir, the Faen are all but dead," the owner of the hands sighed rather peevishly.

Her teacher stood before her in robes nearly as dusty as the book on her desk, his old mottled hands stroking through the thick grey hair that fell to unkempt waves at his shoulders. He snuffed his big crooked nose and his lips clicked when he opened them, wrinkled and sunken. "Not all of them, my Lady," he corrected, scratching a blunt nail beneath his robe collar to loosen it from his sagging neck. A proud smile pressed into his loose, ruddy cheeks, making his round face only rounder, and his smile had a way of making his eyes squint so that the crow's feet there became so dramatic they nearly swallowed his temples. "The Dir still live. They keep away from us, certainly, but they do build and hunt and so on," Gjirdir swept up the large tome in his arms like it weighed not but a small bag of sand. He paused to draw his spindly fingers across the intricate leather and onyx cover for only a moment, head lifting when his pupil spoke once again.

"Elves, yes. But what has that got to do with me? I see no point in researching it. They leave us to ourselves,"

"And when they don't? What will you do then?"

"What?"

"You won't know a thing, and trying to defeat an enemy you know nothing of is a difficult task indeed, my lady." Gjirdir's smile pressed his cheeks up again, and faintly the girl wondered how long it would take for the old man's wrinkles to swallow his face. Pressed by boredom, the lady leaned forwards against the desk, laying her sharp chin on her pleated hands. "Alright, Gjirdir, I'll bite. Why would Elves attack us? Why should we fear them?"

An intensely conspiratorial look crossed over the old man's face, and he all but cast the tome onto a nearby chair to lean his hands on her desk, lowering his face towards hers. "Because... they are Magick. And that is what Magickal things do, my Lady. They destroy things," he whispers, eyes intense. "Elves think themselves above us, and rightly so. They have a power none of us could ever hope or dare to wield– an evil power. You remember all those stories you were told as a child, Lady? They are not based only on some old writer's imagination. They are based in truth!" the man straightened, creaking like an old tree with gnarled limbs. He touched the tips of his fingers together, tapping them anxiously. At this, the girl only smiled and absently started to toy with the curled strands of dark hair on her head.

"Oh? Then why have they not attacked us yet, if they are so powerful and we are beneath their boots?"

Gjirdir either did not catch the teasing look in her rich brown eyes or did not wish to indulge it, for his expression remained grave. "Because they do not think us worth their time, Lady. All it would take is one minor grievance and you will see," he shook his finger at her, picking the tome up again. "You will see them at the gates of this kingdom, destroying all without mercy. Unstoppable!" he floundered at the end, throwing his spare hand into the air with a bluster of his lips, shuffling off to return the book lovingly to its dedicated place on his voluminous shelves.

"Is that so? Unstoppable? Nothing is unstoppable, Gjirdir," the girl pulled her lips back in an amused grin, rising from her chair to follow the tottering man through the mess that was his study. She was fond of him, truly, and he was no fool. All knew of the danger Magick poses, but Elves are so reclusive at this time that there is hardly a sighting a cycle, across all of Gressyk. It helps that half of them are underground. "There must be some way to stop an Elf, hm? As a child you told me of people who could defeat the Faen. What of them?"

Gjirdir hummed low in his throat, stepping up on a stool with a crack of his knee to lift the heavy tome back to its high shelf. "A way to stop them. Yes, but it is difficult. The best way to deal with a Fae," Gjirdir turned and stepped down off the stool to look down at the girl, "is to destroy their WayGates. Ahh, here, let me see," he turned his back to her, scurrying over to another shelf stacked with rolled up parchments. He tossed a few around before drawing out a long roll, shaking it out across another desk. "Here, look."

It was a figure that looked rather Folk-like, silhouetted in black ink and surrounded in anatomical notations. Though Folkish it looked, its limbs were thin and long, and its ears were nearly as long as her forearm, tapering to a fine point. "No one's entirely sure where the WayGates are in Elves, and every book you read will have different opinions." Gjirdir lifted a couple small blue stones from his pocket and placed them on the figure: one on the throat, and one where the mouth would be. "The most popular theory is that the WayGates depend on the species and race of Fae. Do you know what kind of Elves we have here in Gressyk? The ones that live in the Arches?"

She did know. She's seen the renditions artists have painted across the walls of Felder, the kingdom closest to the Arch Forest. The Folk there often jibber on about Kyrendir. "Wood Elves," the young girl said confidently, crossing her arms and peering over the desk to observe the rough-hewn blue stones on the figure map. "Are those the WayGates?" she asked, glancing up at her teacher's face briefly, just enough to catch the toothy grin on his face.

"Just so," he nods, fidgeting with the spacing of the stones. "For Kyrendir, we think their WayGates are here. All Elves we know of but one have two WayGates," he taps the two stones for emphasis. "If we follow the common theory, we believe the Kyrendir have their WayGates in their throat and mouth. That is why their songs and words are to be warned against," he moves the stones to one on each hand. "Borendir, Snow elves, have them in their palms," the stones are moved to the chest and forehead. "Mordir. Some think this is why they are so passionate– fire Magick in their chest, it is understandable," the old scholar chuckled to himself and then scooped the stones up.  
"There's a rumor of a sixth Elven species in Bossk, but I don't believe it, myself. There is one type of Dir we know of that isn't like the others, and seem to have _four_ gates. Smaller than their siblings, but four nonetheless." Gjirdir removes two more stones, placing one on each hand and foot. "Here. Elves have to activate their Magick through different means– either specific motions or sounds. Wood Elves must sing. Ice Elves must," the old man stepped back and waved his hands as if conducting a band of minstrels. "Mordir activate it in battle, which is a bit more complex than the motions of the other Elves. Handrendir, however, dance." Gjirdir smiles, tapping his feet and waving his hands in a playful little gesture, satisfied when it drew a slightly ungraceful snicker from the girl before him.

"They have four WayGates. One in each hand and foot," Gjirdir taps the stones in each place. "If Elves do not use all the WayGates in tandem, the Magick will Fizzle–"

"Fizzle?"

"Yes!" Gjirdir's face sprung into another smile that wrinkled his face into small chasms. "The Magick sputters and fails, it dies out before any important effect can be achieved," the old man tapped his fingertips together again. "It is like an army. If they work together they can achieve a terrible effect, but if they are uncoordinated, like the dance of a fool, the army will fall to its foes."

The man pushed a few protesting locks of blondish grey hair back from his face, stepping closer to the girl before him. Never would she admit it, but the Court Loremaster's passion for knowledge was infectious, and how excited he got was even more so, for the girl found herself smiling widely. He lifted a thick, round finger as his face held glittering eyes, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "If one WayGate falls, they all fall. That is how you defeat a Dir," he grins widely, turning suddenly to scoop up the lapis stones and slip them back into his pocket with a few pleasing 'clink's.

Both heads, raven and silver alike, lifted to the sound of the wood and iron door swinging open and the soft sound of leather-clad footsteps entering over the stone floor. Gjirdir clicked his lips open and puffed out a breath, shaking his head with a fondness. "Berlorn, have you got what I asked of you?"

From out between the book-laden shelves walked a Folken creature, though he was not human. "I have, all four of them," the Enog spoke, bowing deeply to the girl in passing before setting four small jars with tapering necks on the table, newly freed as Gjirdir rolled up the parchment and tossed it to the pile whence it came.

"All four? Good, thank you," Gjirdir patted the boy's shoulder, and a smile came to his one-eyed face, for Enogs were a bit different to humans. Shorter, stronger, with skin of oranges from the vibrant paint used by artisans and cloth dyers, to the palest shade of a peach fruit. Their hair a brown dark as chestnut, yellow as the palest straw, and all that lay in between; always the hair of an Enog is to be found in tight ringlets and curls, always untamable. A single giant eye rests in the center of a face, above a nose so small and squashed it is said that they hardly have a single idea of what smell is. They stand often at five and a half feet tall with four-fingered hands and rounded teeth, and a strength in their small bodies to match that of the largest human.

Berlorn, in his modest self, had hair the color of ash wood, the stubborn curls pulled back into a small ponytail behind his head. His giant eye, which stretched from one side of his round face to the other, was a dazzling green that was near as vibrant as the lush grass outside. The girl had seen him many times before, and the sunset orange of his skin could be recognized anywhere— particularly as it was covered in pale freckles.

"You should be off before you are late for the Feast, Gjirdir," Berlorn smiled, picking up the four vials of ink and slipping between the shelves. "Shall I accompany you?"

"As always, Berlorn," Gjirdir smiled, patting the chest of his grey robes, a puff of dust clouding around him in a moment before falling to the ground. "No one would want to miss the Lord Kessian and Lady Mortier's birthday, now would they?" the old man turned to give the girl a wink, the girl returning it with a smirk.

"Not just a birthday, Gjirdir," the girl waved a hand and lifted the slender palms across her head. " _Coronation_ Day. I will finally join my siblings at the council table," the Lady Mortier grins, lowering her hands. "Your servant is right! We must prepare and get properly dressed. Berlorn, have you seen Nima?" the young girl asked, stepping to peer between the shelves. A green eye lifted to meet hers with a surprised blink and the Enog 'uhh's for a couple moments, eye falling half-lidded in thought. "I _believe_ she was readying your clothes in your chambers, Lady," he said, pulling himself into a bow.

"Thank you, Berlorn. I am off, Gjirdir. You must bore — I mean teach — your servant in my place," the birthday girl grins, running out of the room.  
  
  


"What has you in such a sour mood, Sire?" the servant asked, kneeling as he clasped the silver buttons of the exquisite black doublet. The boy of frizzy blonde hair was only a few Moon Cycles older than the one he dresses, but he'd been in service to him for cycles already. Dour as the master was, the relationship between the two was neither strained nor distant, as the servant might claim the title of his master's only friend.

"I do not like that this ceremony is closed-door, Jorgoff. It is unfair," the young boy lifted his chin as the servant tilted his head, sweeping a cloak of fur dyed green around his master's slim shoulders. "Unfair, Sire? Wherefore?" Jorgoff smiled, and the Lord could see two shallow dimples press into his pale, ruddy cheeks.

"It was my wish for the people to see our crowning, and it has been denied. On my day my wish is denied." The Lord lifted his head, his face twisting into a frown. "All because they wanted to spend less Silveroak on this, the most important day of our lives," he spat quietly, pulling his face into a stormy scowl. Once Jorgoff had fastened the golden clasp, the little prince lowered his chin again.

"There will be many more important events, Kessian," Jorgoff provided a smile, crouching down to double-check the laces and buckles of the little Lord's fine leather and cloth boots. Satisfied, he stands and looks down at his little master, reaching down to ensure each raven strand of hair was in perfect place. His words earned Jorgoff a frown. "Your little face is much too perfect to wear such a foul expression, Sire," Jorgoff only smiled brighter, chuckling softly and dodging away from the small ringed hand flying out to swat him away from the raven-haired head.

"I am not little, you spindly stick insect," Little Lord Kessian scowls, running his palm over the decorated sheath of his knife to check it was properly affixed to his belt. "Fetch Yetsh from outside the chambers," he ordered and Jorgoff just maintained his grin, crossing swiftly to the doors and opening them to speak quietly with someone just outside. Kessian could not hear the whispers, nor did he need to. The little lord stepped up to his mirror and inspected himself in its reflection.

Round face, the same shape as his pathetic twin sister's. It looks much better on him. Fine brown eyes, round and intense, like they can stare right into you, through you and everything you do. Like they Know. That's how he's heard them described, anyway. Smooth, fair skin without a single blemish. Tastefully rosy cheeks and lips, just hinting to color. Curled blue roan bangs that lay styled across his forehead and curling up his jaw from behind his ears, and the royal golden rings piercing the bridge of his nose. The little Lord Kessian frowned at his image in the mirror. He was twelve cycles old, today, and yet he looked no part as mature in body as he felt. Not that his sister fared any better, but still, it bothered him.

It was only after a few moments of hearing the heavy footfalls enter the chamber and halt dutifully by the door did he pull his gaze from the mirror, wordlessly reinforcing the point that his attention was precious. "Yetsh. Did you do as I ordered?"

"I did, Sire." The voice was a deep one, the kind of voice that makes one's chest resonate whenever they spoke, no matter how quietly it is. It belonged to a Bossk woman of dark mahogany skin, skin that made her yellowed teeth all the brighter when she spoke. Her face was tall and squared in jaw and brow, that same flat straight-edged theme following her nose and her stature. Squared shoulders held proudly back above equally square hips and feet, her posture creating a strong rectangle that the Prince doubted could be moved by four others. Yetsh had her hands folded behind her back and head lowered, as is customary between a Lord and his Guard. She was in simple clothing: bright emerald green tunic over similar hose, tucked into armored boots. She wore a breastplate and shoulderguard which sported an equally verdant cloak, but these were less for function and more for decoration. To be the guard of a royal was, after all, a high position with much respect and responsibility.

Little Lord Kessian stood leaning against the mirror-sporting desk for a moment, simply observing her with narrowed eyes. Her braided hair was short and pulled back into a ponytail, a couple strands of silver running through the onyx tresses. The faint show of wrinkles were beginning to appear in the corners of her eyes and mouth, but she still looked to be somewhat young. "Good." Lord Kessian boosted himself off the desk and onto his feet properly, approaching the guard. "You had no issues, I trust." It was less of a question and more of a statement, to which she nodded his satisfaction, hazel eyes on the ground. "None, Sire. Everything is as you decreed." There wasn't a flinch in her face or her words, expression naught to be found save the silent stoicism in her eyes.

"Then we shall be off to the Ring Room," Lord Kessian announced, striding past his personal guard and dutiful Jorgoff who stands outside the doors to his chamber. "Jorgoff, you may accompany us," Kessian says stiffly, though it was of no offence to the servant, who smiled and bowed graciously, taking his place beside the rather tall guard woman.  
  
  


Their excited footsteps bounced off the stone walls of the castle as Lady Mortier sped down the circular staircase, her ornate black and green dress held up in one clenched fist as the other trails the central column supporting the stairs. "Come Nima, Ysrand! It's nearly time!" she crowed happily, a wide grin on her face. Behind her scurried her personal servant and guard, a Morrish woman of light brown skin and mud colored hair, and a thick Grescian man of patchy pink skin, dressed in the same garb of the other Royal guards. "Slow down, my Lady!" a flustered Nima laughed, her own dress lifted in her hands as she raced down the stairs behind her mistress. "Do not muss your hair!" Ysrand didn't speak, too busy focusing on the small stairs beneath his large feet, trying not to step on Nima's dress and send all three of them tumbling down the stone stairs.

"My hair is fine, Nima!" Lady Mortier reached her hand from the column to her plaited hair, a braid woven around her head like a crown, each strand in place. Pinned to her braid is a feathery black veil, fluttering behind her like a crow. "Aren't you excited? This is going to be amazing!"

"Yes, Lady, very excited!" Nima puffed, leaning a hand against the wall once they finally get to the bottom of the stairs. Lady Mortier stopped when she heard the lack of footsteps, turning and bouncing on her toes, the leather bottoms of her slippers tapping quietly on the polished floor. "Nima, Nima, come on!"

The woman lifted her other hand, recovering her breath with an exasperated smile. "One moment, Lady. I am... not as young as you." She straightened with one last huff and walked over to the birthday girl. "I am glad you are excited, your Highness, but perhaps we should walk down this hallway," she suggests, reaching down to touch at the rings in the bridge of birthday girl's nose.

Lady Mortier released a dramatic sigh like a woeful ghost slowly slipping from the petals of a rose. "Yes, I suppose you're right, Nima," she moaned woefully, patting down the frills of her delicately embroidered dress. The princess lead her guard and servant along the tiled stonework of the swept floors, approaching a large pair of dark wooden doors that stand proud in their carved stone fitting, the rich wood of the doors covered in swirling strips of iron that attaches to the door hinges and handles, curling along the slats that compose the door. Upon their approach, the footmen swing the doors open and announce Lady Mortier's arrival to the awaiting room beyond.


	3. Chapter Two: Ouroboros

This room. The Grand Room. The room where the Council of the Twined meets, each royal sibling sitting in their rightful seat around the Ring table. If one were to observe the room itself, they would notice that the large rectangular room had a ceiling higher than any ceiling on this floor of the castle— higher even than the ceiling of the ballroom. The ceiling was arched and laden with vividly colored tiles in a rich pattern across its body. The arches ran down from the ceiling to columns affixed to the walls, ribbing the room. In the center of the space was a moderately sized table in the shape of a hollow circle, surrounded by six chairs, two of them draped with ornamental silks and laces to signify celebration and importance.

Young Mortier's eyes, the color of fine chocolate from Morrin, landed on her twin brother in the left-most empty chair, and then followed the ring of the table around to her other older siblings. Six chairs, six young rulers sitting in the long-since relinquished seats of their forebears. Their mother and her seven siblings. Her eyes found Kessian's head as she stepped forwards to sit to his right.

Then her eyes found Iligor to Kessian's left, her next oldest brother; slender and draped in furs, with a tamed goatee and wavy black hair combed back over his ears, cushioning a silver and emerald crown composed of two twisting bodies of silver snakes with gems tucked into the folds of their crossing bodies. He was nineteen cycles old, with eyes as brown as those you might see in any child of Tilian and Fjorlas. Kinder than any of his siblings, but he was a child of lesser responsibility to match.

Across from him sat Uedien, the second youngest sister; just as slender as Iligor, and thirteen cycles old. Long raven hair lay flowing down her pale shoulders like liquid night spilling over snow-fallen ground. She wore a shoulderless dress of long sleeves and long train, black as night and embroidered with silver, each crossing of silver thread on the bosom of her dress punctured with a small emerald. Her cheeks were sharp and her smile was soft, if a bit vague at times. Hiligan often had to help her with her studies, though Hiligan had endless patience for his siblings. A crown of snakes sat upon her head as well, this time two snakes biting the same green jewel in the center.

To fair Uedien's right sat Hiligan, the second oldest sibling. He had a black beard as long as his hair, reaching down to his shoulders and pulled into a careful braid in front. He was chatting with a few nobles from his seat, a goblet in his thick black-gloved hand. He was tall and muscular, though his middle was a bit round. He had scars from the battles he's lead against Barlden, the Crow King of the Grescian Plains back when the two kingdoms were fighting. His laugh was infectious, though, and it pushed a grin onto Mortier's own face as she watched three of the people speaking with Hiligan laugh with him. Upon his head was a crown of silver latticed snakes, so thin that you wouldn't know them to be snakes unless you were close. Slotted in along the top of the crown were green gems in the eyes of each upward-curling snake.

Filling the last seat at the Ring table was Jaldien, Hiligan's twin sister. She was twenty-three cycles old to match Hiligan. She was of broader stature to match him as well, with hair that stopped when it curled inwards along her chin in a neat line. Her crown was silver spikes, snakes weaving through and around them, draped in fine chains that hung down around Jaldien's head and dangled with little green tear-drop gems. Jaldien was the head of the Ring table, and the eldest sister of the six siblings. She took their mother's place at the table, and Hiligan took the seat beside her. Together they made decisions for the kingdom as their siblings one by one grew old enough to also join. Jaldien was merciful but responsible, and knew the boundaries of herself and her people. What the kingdom was capable of, and what she would not stand for. Jaldien has always had Hiligan's support, and Hiligan Jaldien's. They could often be found together, and Hiligan was always the best at making Jaldien smile.

Each sibling, now, sat at the Ring Table.

Each seat was finally filled, after a little more than a Tion — ten Moon Cycles. Around the room were curved tables and benches from which all seated could see the Ring table in the room's center. These benches were less permanent, but often present nonetheless. These curved tables formed a segmented series of circles that got broader the further out they became. Mortier couldn't decide on what to look at, but lifted her head upwards to see Nima and Ysrand standing behind her chair, talking quietly. They both turn their gazes down when they see the contortion of the finely-styled head, and offer up warm smiles. Both Nima and Ysrand had been serving her since her birth, and often accompanied her on her antics. Each Sibling had a personal servant and guard, and to be without them was a rare occurrence. Mortier spotted Gjirdir and Berlorn sitting at one of the closer benches as well, giving and receiving a smile from them both.

Each sibling, now, sat at the Ring Table.

Kessian's chest bubbled with anticipation, but he carefully kept himself calm in expression, hands folded in his lap and eyes as cool as ever. Jorgoff and Yetsh stood behind his chair, one stoic and the other looking excited enough for the three of them, wringing his hands. Jorgoff quietly conversed with Touslehan, Iligor's personal servant. Both young boys bounced on their toes and giggled with nerves, waiting for the ceremony to start. "It's not a long thing," Touslehan waved a hand, eyes bright. "But the _party_ —"

"I _love_ the party," Jorgoff agreed with an enthusiastic nod of his shaggy-haired head. Jorgoff widened his mouth to continue speaking, but suddenly all the room fell into silence.

Jaldien and Hiligan had gotten to their feet, and now Iligor and Uedian stand as well. A mix of excitement and pride glowed within each set of brown eyes, and each royal guard fell to one knee, heads down. Nima and Jorgoff took tense breaths and slowly walked to two pedestals that had been moved to either sides of the large entrance doors. Each lifted up a crown from the pedestal and started to slowly walk back, standing behind the chairs of their respective Lord and Lady.

"Today, all six heads of the Grescian Snake sit at the Ringed Table in the Council hall," Hiligan lifted his hand to call attention from where he stood, head held proud. "Today, our youngest siblings, Lord Kessian and Lady Mortier, will join us around the table for as long as this council may stand." Jaldien, then, raised her head as well. With a quiet excitement, warm as her familiar voice, she smiled at her littlest siblings. "Kessian, Mortier. Take to your feet, my brother and sister."

Kessian's feet practically tingled as he stood upon them, placing his hands on the surface of the table. He heard Mortier take a sharp breath in beside him, and could practically feel her excitement vibrate beside him. It made his own emotions swell, but he quickly quieted them down.

"Now, Mortier and Kessian. Twins in life, and youngest of the Snake Siblings. We grace you with your birthright: a crown and a seat at the Ring table, as a part of the Council of Snakes to rule over this fair kingdom." Jaldien's voice rings out again, her goblet still held high. Nima and Jorgoff lifted the crowns, hovering the glittering headpieces over the heads of their rulers.

Hiligan, now, raised his goblet alongside his twin's. "Now, Mortier and Kessian, we grace you with your birthright, and ask this of you: Do you pledge to stand beside your brothers and sisters of the Snake Council, through celebrations and disagreements?" He set his bearded smile on them, quiet contentment and pride.

"Now," Iligor slipped his fingers around the stem of his goblet and raised it above his head. "Mortier and Kessian, we grace you with your birthright, and ask this of you: Do you pledge to uphold the values and well-being of your siblings, kingdom, and its people in all your years of being on the council?" The vows changed from Council to council, devised by the siblings that came before as they welcomed their next siblings— or if it was for the first of the next Council's generation, then the Council parent of the new set of children. Each sibling here came up with their line. The vows rarely change much in their foundation, but they fluctuate slightly from crowning to crowning.

Uedian followed Iligor in raising her wine-filled goblet, and Kessian watched the small droplet of red fly down to the table in her over-enthusiasm. "Now, Mortier and Kessian," she said loudly, barely containing the excited quiver in her voice as she spoke, big eyes on the twelve-cycle-olds. "We grace you with your birthright, and ask this of you: Do you pledge to do what is right for this kingdom, despite the cost to yourself, whether others will know of it or not?"

Kessian lifted his eyes from that little red stain on the dark table to the eyes of his older siblings. He could feel the people around them staring, their eyes boring into them. He felt Mortier lift her left hand to grasp his right, and had to force his eyes to remain relaxed. "Yes," Kessian lifted his chin with as much dignity as he could muster, while Mortier smiled and nodded slightly. "I do," she echoed, grinning wider when teeth cracked through Jaldien's smile. The eldest sister lifted her chin. "Then take up your goblets my siblings, in celebration of your many years to come at this table!"

Kessian's heart leapt to his throat and he reached his left hand to lift his goblet up, feeling a weight settle on his head as Jorgoff lowered the crown onto the raven locks of his skull. A single silver snake, curling clockwise with a large green jewel in its unhinged mouth at the front. Mortier's was the same, but the snake was moving counter-clockwise.

* * *

The crowd around them broke into cheers and applause as each sibling lifted the goblet with big grins. Jaldien set hers down on the table, watching her siblings drink from the goblets. Her dark brown eyes found her mother and father sitting on one of the nearer curved benches. They caught her eyes and smiled widely, lifting their goblets and clapping.

* * *

Kessian felt the wine. It was dark to look at and cold against his closed lips. In the shadows of his silver bejeweled goblet, the liquid nearly looked black. Kessian drank none of it, lowering his goblet and setting the fancy cup on the table. His eyes landed on each swallowing sibling, then Jaldien. Panic flared up like a dove in his chest, anxious to be out of a cage. He took a slow breath and lifted his head, taking comfort in the heavy crown on his head. There was time. There was time. He turned to Jorgoff, stepping away from his chair, only to see his idiot servant grinning from ear to ear. Kessian lifted a brow, then stubbornly tried to suppress a smile at his long-time friend. "Get that look off your face, you overgrown hen," Kessian huffed, but there was no venom in the words.

"Ah, my liege, how could I? When that crown upon your head inspires so much beauty and joy within this weak heart of mine?" Jorgoff mourned dramatically, sweeping his hands across his chest. He quietly celebrated his victory when Kessian choked on a snort, lifting the back of his ringed hand to his mouth. He then swatted his servant, a comfortable smile on his face. "Oh, enough of you! Gods save me from your witless humor."

Suddenly a different kind of cry rippled across the crowd. Kessian snapped his gaze over, quickly searching for Jaldien. Instead he found the commotion centered around Mortier. His twin had been talking to a couple of the nobles, receiving her congratulations. Now she stood doubled and wheezing, a hand around her middle and another on her mouth. Her silver and emerald crown had toppled to the ground, just minutes after it'd been placed. Kessian watched Mortier's servant— Nima, he thought her name was— rush over to Mortier just as his sister collapsed. The attention quickly shifted to Uedian and Iligor. Iligor trembled, struggling to keep himself up on the table as his servant and royal guard each grabbed his arm, panic on their faces. Uedian had collapsed back into her chair and started groaning and whimpering in pain, clutching at her body.

Hiligan was on his way to Uedian to his left when suddenly he stumbled, catching himself on the table. He puffed, banging a fist on his chest before growling. Teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut, he fell to his hands and knees, clawing at the ground. Jaldien stood frozen, watching her siblings curl up, bewildered. Kessian listened to Jaldien call loudly above the now frantic din of the Round Room for the physician in the benches, and felt his heart hammer on his ribs. There is no time. There were eyes on every one of them. He could feel Jorgoff watch him in fear of seeing Kessian fall to his knees like his siblings.

Kessian started hearing murmurs of 'the wine.' Obviously he hadn't been the only one paying attention. Jaldien looked up from Hiligan as he was supported by his guard and servant, half-dragged out of the room after the other three royals. Jaldien looked to the goblet at Hiligan's place, then at her own. Her horrified brown eyes found Kessian's, and something changed in her. Something Kessian didn't like. But he couldn't start acting now— this wasn't how it was supposed to go. Jaldien liked red wine more than Hiligan did.

"Kessian."

Her voice cut through his thoughts. He had lost track of himself— hadn't noticed the step back he'd taken, practically into Jorgoff's chest. He felt his servant's hands on his shoulders and suddenly felt weak. His stomach twisted in on itself and he felt his head grow light, swimming with nausea.

"We need to go," Kessian rasped faintly, and he knew from the look on Jaldien's face that he had lost his nerve. Disbelief, dismay, horror, and rage all crossed Jaldien's eyes, and Kessian couldn't stand to look at them a moment more. Yetsh looked at him from the corner of her dark eyes. She slowly placed a hand on his shoulder, then shoved him back towards the door. "Go!" she hissed, but Kessian hardly needed the encouragement. Yetsh quickly followed behind her charge's footsteps, and Jorgoff— poor, sweet Jorgoff— fumbled after them in a tizzy, calling Kessian's name. The youngest boy heard Jaldien wail 'stop him!' from the room behind, and his mouth ran dry.

Yetsh pulled the twelve-cycled boy off the ground, because she could run faster than he. "Jorgoff," she snapped, eyes intense as she looked down at the puffing servant. "The stables. Go. Now!" Jorgoff didn't say a word as he parted from them, sprinting down a hallway to the left while Yetsh dashed ahead into a courtyard with Kessian in her arms.

Kessian could hear the march of armored footsteps behind them. Twisting in Yetsh's arms, he looked back over her shoulder to see the troupe of castle guards chasing after them. Kessian's hand rose to hold onto the crown curling around his head, watching the guards with big, shocked eyes. "Halt! You cannot do this! Leave- leave us alone!" the boy shouted, mustering up his failing authority. To no avail. The guards spoke not, faces invisible beneath the helmets atop their heads. Their armor clanked in unison, like each guard was of the same mind. Normally seeing the guards was a silent comfort he took for granted. They were always quiet, strong, and unmovable. It felt like nothing could ever fell them.

Now, though... now the inspiration had soured into fear. Horrible, numbing fear. The type to make your knees tremble and your throat clench and your belly flip over in knotted bundles that keep trying to rise up through your throat. Kessian watched Yetsh glance back as well, a quiet and hurried snarl bubbling out of her throat. The boy's belly lurched when she vaulted over a half-wall that ran a ring around the courtyard, feet thundering down the tiles of a hallway, walls nothing but open arches overlooking a steep cliff down. The castle sat in the lap of the mountains, and the terrain was treacherous if faced without caution.

Kessian turned his gaze away from the knights chasing after them, ignoring the quiet orders they rasped to one another. He stared down the hallway, but a bitter bile rose to his tongue when he saw the gleam of more running armor making its way down the hall. The thought of vaulting an arched window didn't even occur to Kessian as a sane option, though Yetsh didn't hesitate in tossing herself feet-first over the half-wall and curling around her charge as the two tumbled arm over leg down the cliff-side.

Stillness.

Everything ached— Kessian's fingers were curled tight around the silver and emerald snake of a crown, his small body clenched to Yetsh's underbelly. His head had banged into her armored chest with no small degree of force, and vaguely Kessian pondered how many times he hit his head on the chaotic trip down the rocky hill. Yetsh spoke something, but he couldn't quite catch it. No, Kessian was too busy trying to blink away the screaming ring in his ears. What he did hear, though, was the distorted voices at the wall now above them. Helmeted heads peered down the steep hill, turning towards each other in uncertainty. Vaguely Kessian celebrated. There's no way they'd be stupid enough to follow them down here. Jumping down themselves was a stupid idea, he thought. The smile that had pushed its way to his face died in a flash of iron. He watched a knight fling out an arm with what he could only assume to be an order to the others before hoisting himself over the wall, landing on his feet and starting to half-run, half-slide down the rocky cliff in a cascade of flint shards and dust.

The raven-haired prince could feel his heart beat in every limb. He could feel its panicked rhythm in his eyes, his head, his throat. He felt sick, he felt light, and at the same time he felt nothing. Headache forgotten, Kessian jerked his head up and brought a palm to Yetsh's face. The woman's eyes had been opened, but they were glossy and far away. Now they blinked and glowered, quickly gathering her surroundings. The bright hazel eyes shot open when they saw the gleaming knight coming closer, with the others following behind with varying degrees of success. There were a couple who lost their footing and began their own painful descent down the cliff, but a number stayed on their feet.

Yetsh once more hoisted Kessian up in one arm, pushing herself up with another to run down the rest of the hillside. The boy got a nice view of the knights gaining on them from Yetsh' arm. He watched them in silence, holding onto his personal guard. Kessian's breath quivered in his chest, and all the thoughts fled from his usually so rational mind. This wasn't supposed to happen. This isn't how it was supposed to go. "They're going to kill us," he whispered, and the pursued prince closed his eyes.


	4. Chapter Three: Serpent's Maw

Alabos Hold is nestled into the mountains. The Mountains that stretch up into the sky, towering over the castle in large points, like some great entity pinched up the ground as if it was nothing more than dough. They reach so high into the sky that they rake like fingers through the clouds; thus these mountains are often nicknamed 'Willow-Man's Claws.' Running from these mountains, past the castle and down towards the coast is a massive river of icy water, fittingly named 'Serpent's Maw.' The sky wrapping around Willow-Man's Claws was grey, and the clouds thick and heavy with the overhanging promise of rain.

For all the pointed spires of Willow-Man's Claws behind it, Alabos Hold itself is quite flat in its rooves and balconies. There was much open space, and the castle was built in levels. Tall stone walls, straight wells of stone stairs. Circular towers with arched windows and flat rooves, save for crenelations. The flat stone rooves of some buildings acted as a balcony or walkway for the floor above. The castle had one pointed roof: the dark form of the pointed peak marking the building where all the living is done inside. The other buildings and even the towers all had flat rooves, and the farther back in the castle you went, the more stairs you had to climb. You could see every part of the castle from the bottom of the hill, for each part behind the other was risen up the mountain. Not so far as to be detached, but it created a tall and strong figure, like the castle was looming above you for miles. Discouraging to attackers, but also to any who came to visit.

The castle sorely lacked any decoration or artwork on the outside, much to the displeasure of neighboring peasants and visiting royalty alike. Even passing merchants would whisper to each other about the bland-looking castle— for all the color, music, and liveliness inside, the outside was dark, imposing, and solid. It looked much like an idea rather than a real thing to exist. Like something you could never reach, no matter how hard you tried. There was a dirt road that transitioned to gravel, then cobblestones the closer you got to the castle. The road was paved and sloped to allow entrance for carts and wagons, but even the surrounding citizens had little to do at the castle, unless a party was being held. Even from outside the city's vast walls, you could see the castle. A statement. A taunt to all outside, daring you to seek it out. Daring you to find a weakness in its strong stature.

These were things Kessian never noticed about his city before. Now it was all he could think of when he saw it, kneeling in the mud by the outcropping of roots and soil by the river bank. Cold, icy water rushed past them only a few feet away, but Kessian couldn't focus on the water and how Jorgoff continually claimed it to be relaxing to dabble in. No, Kessian could hardly tear his eyes from the dark spot on the mountain that was Alabos city.

Kessian had fallen into oblivion on Yetsh's shoulder. He found himself lying in this muddy alcove when he awoke, Jorgoff sitting in stunned and grim silence nearby. Yetsh was nowhere to be seen, and when he asked, Jorgoff explained that she went to get a small boat. Now the Prince rubbed at his pounding head, staring over the alcove at the city in the distance. Jorgoff had his fabric shoes off and was splashing around in the edge of the freezing water, but dared not wade deeper than his shins. Even on the banks the current was strong, a mere whisper of how easily the water could sweep away the sturdiest building. "Lord Kessian, truly, just step in and let your worries flow away with the water!" Jorgoff encouraged for the fifth time.

"I will not, Jorgoff! Cease your gibbering about the water!" Kessian hissed, turning and sitting down with a rub at his aching head, briefly closing his eyes in an attempt to block out the pounding. "It's been a full Sun Face, where in Oldel's name is Yetsh?" he grumbled, setting on a pointless venture to try rubbing the mud out of his silk hose. Jorgoff stopped kicking at the water, turning to stare fretfully in the city's direction. "What if they got to her?"

"Nonsense, Jorgoff," Kessian scoffed, drawing his cloak tail in front of him to squeeze out mud clumps. "Yetsh is one of the best knights in Morrin. Hence why she's my personal guard. It's not just a display of formality, Jorgoff. Who would need the better guards more: my stubborn older siblings or the "poor young ones who can't fight?"" Kessian pulled his face into a crude and inexperienced pout, batting his eyes.

"....You," Jorgoff, rubbed his hands together, nodding slowly.

"Precisely. Yetsh can outmatch even Hiligan, I'd gamble."

"But — there was more than one of them, my Lord. You think she can hold that many off?"

"Of course," was all Kessian responded with, giving a firm nod of his messy-haired head.  
  
  


Jorgoff just hummed, taking a breath before turning back towards the river. He lifted his arms to his sides and exhaled his worries out into the river, chewing on his lip. Kessian needed him to be positive. He needed to be positive for Kessian. _That's right_ , he told himself, nodding with eyes brimming of determination. Fire in his chest, Jorgoff turned back to skip over to Kessian, landing in an energetic crouch that made the mud 'squelch' beneath his bare toes. "Hey, Kessian, maybe the _river_ will get that mud out." The grin on the servant's face increased tenfold when the twelve-cycle-old prince slowly lifted a deep scowl of irritation to his fifteen-cycle-old servant.

There was a long silence of grinning and scowling before Kessian finally growled and threw his hands in the air, rings clinking. "Fine! Fine, fine, the river! Yes, Jorgoff! If only to stop your fascinated, small-minded jabbering!" Jorgoff only giggled, helping Kessian to his feet.

"Oh, but you do so love my jabbering! Deny it all you want, you can't order me to leave you out here," Jorgoff hums, like some strange species of bird.

"Can't I?" Kessian grumbled, lifting his arms to his sides and allowing Jorgoff to undo clasps and buttons and eye-hooks and laces.

"Not to my knowledge. You don't have an invisible army, do you?" the servant grinned, folding the muddy cloak over one arm and holding muddier boots in his other hand.

Kessian scoffed, the corner of his lip curling. "If only. Everything would be so much easier if I did," he shook his head, walking over to the river. He paused on the edge, the water lapping just beyond his toes. He stared down at the clear liquid, watching a few small chunks of stubborn ice rush past. "This is a terrible idea. You have terrible ideas, Jorgoff," Kessian huffed, puffing out his chest and stepping into the water. Immediately, he cringed, fingers curling into fists and his shoulders rising to his ears. "How... do you _enjoy_ this?" the prince hissed, much to Jorgoff's delight.

"I grew up on this river! For a lot of people, it's the only means of washing. You learn to love it," Jorgoff waved a hand factually, setting the boots down beside his own shoes. He chuckled, idly watching his young master wiggle in an attempt to deal with the cold as he waded in further. Standing where Jorgoff stood, the water came just past Kessian's knees. "Oh — Kessian, don't go any further—" Jorgoff bent to set the cloak down, and when he looked up he managed to glimpse the fall of Kessian's small body, legs swept out from beneath him. With a loud expletive Jorgoff quickly scrambled across the slippery mud, feet struggling to gain traction and propel him across the ground. Kessian floundered against the bank, clawing off handfuls of mud as he coughed up water, fighting to keep his head above the torrential waters. The shock of the cold battled with the pure energy of the fear-fueled adrenaline in his veins, making it hard to think and hard to coordinate, but impossible to stay still.

Jorgoff continued to hissed curses, diving along the bank to grasp as Kessian's arms or shoulders. The fabric of the lord's shirt was loose and slippery, and the restrictive vest was little to hold onto. "Kessian! Grab my hands!" Jorgoff cried, but the boy didn't seem to hear, wildly floundering at the bank. The water swallowed up the raven-haired head before it resurfaced and Jorgoff scrambled to follow. The mud, however, had another plan. The unstable ground shifted beneath him and launched him into the angry waters too, quickly pursuing the boy he worked for. Jorgoff, who did know how to swim, hurried the small distance separating them and scooped Kessian into his arms, struggling to keep the both of them from drifting towards the center of the river, feet scraping at the rocky, muddy bottom of the river in a struggle for anchorage.

The boys didn't hear it, but a muttered grumble was uttered nearby. Two strong hands clasped Jorgoff's shoulders, who held a clinging Kessian. Jorgoff was hoisted out and landed heavily on his back, the black-haired prince curled up to his chest, looking much like a wet and trembling cat. Jorgoff 'oof'ed, the air knocked from his lungs by the impact. It didn't hurt, but it had force. He looked up in shock, and met Yetsh's stern gaze.

"The whole point of the boat is so you didn't have to swim the river."

A moment of stunned silence followed the gravelly statement. Jorgoff then started to chuckle — he couldn't help it! The fear of losing the prince to the river, the shock of being hauled out, the severity of Yetsh's gaze, the dry humor of her words... it all overwhelmed him. His chest started to bounce a little, much to Kessian's groaned displeasure. Jorgoff let himself go limp, eyes closing as he just laughed out the nerves of the situation.  
  
  


"Oooh, but swimming is so much fun," Jorgoff wheezed quietly, Kessian rolling off the servant and regaining his breath on the muddy ground. Yetsh walked over, kneeling in the mud beside him. "Kessian," she nudged his arm, and his brown eyes opened to stare up at her. His heartbeat pounded in his head more than ever, an aggressive pulse in his eyes and ears. Yetsh shook her head and put a hand on his chest, pressing down slightly. "You're safe, Kessian. You're safe. Calm down," she said, her deep voice resonating like an anchor down her arm and into his thin chest.

After a moment, Kessian's breathing had stilled and he sat up, usually curly hair plastered to his face and neck in a messy curtain. "Of course," he puffed out with a breath, pushing himself to his feet. He stood there, looking much like a wet cat for a moment, before he started peeling off his vest to ring out his shirt. Yetsh, however, shook her head. "Don't bother. You need to change clothes, anyway."

"I'm sorry? Change clothes? And what, we're going to waltz back up to the castle to get them?" Kessian squinted at her. It was then that Kessian noticed the distinct lack of green on his bodyguard. It was off-putting; every time Kessian had seen Yetsh throughout his life, it was in that same outfit with the same haircut and the same expression. Now she was dressed in what he could only describe as peasant garb. It was only a moment before he understood. "No," the word dropped like a flat stone to sand. "No, absolutely not. I am not wearing poor people's clothing."

Jorgoff snorted and sat up from the ground. "My lord, we are, for some reason, running from the guards. I think they'd spot your clothes and crown in an instant."

"Right, because my face isn't recognizable at all," Kessian drawled, eyes narrowing. He turned his squinted eyes to Yetsh's face before grumbling in his throat and pulling his bejeweled dagger from his belt. "Fine. Simply fine," he shook his head as Jorgoff chuckled and undid Kessian's shirt buttons. The boy shivered, wiping water off of his pale skin as Yetsh tossed Jorgoff a dry shirt from the boat. White cotton, with twine laces up the front. The sleeves were loose and cinched only at the wrists to keep them out of the way. Kessian scowled his distaste as Jorgoff laced up the shirt. His soaked hose and trousers were changed as well, switched out for linen trousers which tucked into thick brown fabric boots.

"You too, Jorgoff," Yetsh tossed him more clothes, and the servant quickly started changing himself. "Dramme, too," Yetsh grunted, pulling her own hair down from the ponytail into loose-hanging braids.

"What? No, I am _not_ taking out my Dramme!" Kessian protested louder than he'd protested at anything else today. "They are a mark of my status and identity and I have bore them since birth! I shall not!"

"Then we might as well carry you back to Jaldien on a silver platter," Yetsh said calmly, stoic eyes ever unchanging. "That's the whole reason you can't wear them or the crown. They give away who you are. You need to take them off."

Kessian opened his mouth to speak his rage, but caught himself. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, nearly red in the face from the angry energy bubbling in his hands and toes. "Oh, do whatever you like, won't you? It's not like we'll be staying here," Kessian snarled quietly, but let Jorgoff approach and slip the golden rings out of the bridge of Kessian's nose. The servant also took the rings from his fingers and the crown from his wet head, carefully detangling some hair that got caught around it during the thrashing of the water. The now plain-looking prince makes a face, lifting his wet hands to rub at the empty piercing holes in his nose, rubbing over the bridge. "It's... strange. How do people walk around without Dramme?"

Dramme was different for people of different classes. Kessian's Dramme, like his siblings, were silveroak and three in number through the bridges of their noses. Those who worked for royalty or were nobles wore two gold Dramme, one in each brow. Yetsh had already removed hers, and once Jorgoff had removed Kessian's, he quickly took out his own. "We'll get used to it," Jorgoff waves a hand, rubbing at his brows. He looked down at the jewelry in his hand and blinked when Yetsh tossed Kessian's fine clothing back into the river. Kessian looked about to protest something again, eyes on the jewelry in Jorgoff's hands, when Yetsh spoke.

"Don't worry. We aren't throwing them away," she said, walking over to the small rowboat she hauled over and pulling bags out. One a belt with pouches tied on, which she held out to Kessian. The boy paused, then took the belt and started tying it around his waist, slipping his jewel-encrusted dagger into it. She gave a shoulder bag to Jorgoff, who perked up. Slinging it over his shoulder, he slipped the jewelry and crown into the bag, clicking his tongue. Yetsh brought out a bag for herself, bigger than the others but empty at the moment.

"Okay. We have new clothes, new bags, no Dramme, no money. Hey, when are you two going to tell me why we're running?" Jorgoff blinked suddenly, as if remembering that he does not, in fact, know what is happening. "I'm not usually one to pry, but... what in Ninisal's name happened back there?"

"Jaldien being obstinate, as per usual," Kessian growled with a flash of irritation, patting down his new and rather plain shirt, checking the laces absently. "Things didn't go how they were supposed to, thanks to her."

"Aaaand... how were they supposed to go?"

"Not here," Yetsh interrupted, casting her gaze around like they were suddenly ringed in soldiers, even though there was not a soul to be found. "Later. We can't stay here for too long. It's been too long already."

"Mm," Jorgoff frowned slightly, walking over to the boat to start pushing it down the bank towards the water. "Well. If it comes to it, I'm sure we could sell our Dramme," he shrugged, apparently unbothered. "Where are we going?"

"The port. I set up preparations in case something went wrong," Yetsh nodded, joining Jorgoff in pushing the boat. The mud made it easy, but as soon as the wood hit the water the pull was insistent. "Into the boat, now," she ordered quietly, and Jorgoff easily hopped in. He held his hands out to Kessian, helping the shorter boy in with a quiet murmur of reassurance. Once they'd both seated themselves and Yetsh double-checked they'd left nothing behind, she nodded and shoved the boat into the water, holding on tight. She, with obvious skill, climbed in and immediately they were careening off down the river.

"Doesn't this river go through Ninisal's Sorrow?" Jorgoff twisted to look at the large woman behind him. She was combing her thick fingers through her hair when she nodded. "Uh... isn't that going to kill us?" Jorgoff's face twisted into worried confusion at Yetsh's seeming indifference.

"No," she shook her head slightly, not bothering to look up.

"How..?"

"We're going to get out before we get there," Yetsh lifted unimpressed eyes to look at Jorgoff, who blinked and his face reddened, overtaken with a sudden sheepishness. "Oh yeah. Of course."

"There's a ship waiting for us at the port, I presume?" Kessian spoke up, lounging across the plank-seat of the boat, picking at the wet mud in his hair. "How thoughtful of you to prepare for my plan to fail," he said dryly, leveling a half-lidded gaze on Yetsh.

"And if I hadn't, sire, we'd have nowhere to go." Yetsh raised a thick brow and shook her now loose and wavy hair out. "Yes, there is a ship waiting at the docks. It'll take us to Morrin, if we get there before it leaves."

"We'll have to be careful in Ceyn. Maybe you should leave the mud in. Makes you look lower class," Jorgoff chirped with annoying cheerfulness.

"Thank you, Jorgoff," Kessian grumbled, but he dropped his hand. "I don't think we'll find any trouble in Ceyn. If it was Hyllelin, it'd be more difficult, but Ceyn harbors less hostility towards us. It is a shame Ixynn isn't on the water — it'd be much easier to trade and travel if we were. I've spoken with Gjirdir about it before — taking over Ceyn. He said it was a ridiculous notion," Kessian scoffed, waving a hand.

"Well... maybe a little ridiculous," Jorgoff maintained his sunny grin.

"I should have gotten a different servant."

Jorgoff laughed. "Awwww, I know you love me."


	5. Chapter Four: Pit of Snakes

"If you're going to be underfoot then you may as well scrub!"

Yetsh heaved a sigh and snagged the sopping, scummy rag on course to Kessian's face from the air, then threw it to the side. "That's enough, Malik."

"Enough? Do you forget who you're talking to? You're on this boat because I said you could be. If your boy is going to get in the way of my crew then I'm going to make you all work for passage!" Malik was a hot-tempered gnomish man; he was all leathery skin, puffy cheeks, and wild flaming hair. He had a hide thick as a Bullhark's and a voice louder than a full hall of drunken Enogen, with a temper to match. He wasn't a sensitive heart and he tolerated no tomfoolery; this much was clear, and even though Yetsh absolutely towered over the diminutive man, he held her eye-for-eye. Currently, his face was nearly as red as his hair.

"In the way—?!" Kessian rose up onto the balls of his feet but was knocked back flat by Yetsh's thick forearm. "He won't be," she graveled, using her arm to try and turn the indignant boy away.

"You better make sure, Gri'shena!" Malik growled, shuffling back up the stairs with invisible steam blowing out his flushed ears.

It had been easy enough to get through Ceyn, the kingdom south of the kingdom from which they fled: Ixynn. No one recognized the three castle-bearers, and if they did nothing was said and they were never chased. They had climbed down the cliffs of Ninisal's Sorrow, the waterfall that marked where Ixynn ended and Ceyn began. It was a bit of a trial to manage getting out of the boat before they were hurdled over the violent cliff of the giant waterfall, but they succeeded with a measure of luck and skill. The skill came from Yetsh.

Each of the kingdoms in Gressyk were all smaller, compared to somewhere like Shra or Alderyn, but the coast was still days away. Fortunately Serpent's Maw is the largest river in Gressyk, big enough for ships to dock. In a large town called Kelly-Dilly was where "The Siren Skipper" sat, docked. This was the ship Yetsh had cleared their passage on. They've been traveling down the river for about two days now. The power of the Serpent was so fierce that it would shorten the normally twelve-day journey to the coast to just four days. Those who visit Gressyk and see the Serpent's Maw for the first time often describe it as a 'ferocious mini-ocean.'

It was faster than walking, and they certainly didn't have the Silveroak for mounts, but... well, they'd gotten into some trouble with the crew, already — particularly Kessian. It wasn't a particularly lively crew, that of the Siren Skipper. They moved like octopi on land, lurching and coiling and slow. They did their work without vigor, staying only for the coin that transporting the cargo brings. This meant most of the crew was snappy and impatient, and those that weren't were simply apathetic to the world around them.

Yetsh and Jorgoff smartly stayed out of the crew's way, but Kessian was more mulish. He would refuse to move when ordered, and had already provoked two of the crew members with his hostile scowling.

The boy would be the death of her. She'd imagined such for cycles, but never had it been so exasperating to Yetsh. She moved her hand to Kessian's shoulder and herded him away, pushing when he resisted. She spoke naught in response to his complaints: "I am a prince! A king! They should learn some respect! I do not move on order of some fish-stinking sailor—"

Yetsh pulled him down below decks towards the table Jorgoff was playing a card game at by himself. "Kessian," she grunted with waning patience, pushing him down into a chair. She leaned her hand on the back of the chair, face hovering close above his. His eyes were faintly traced with shock, but they only formed thin rings on a pool of anger.

"You are not a prince, nor are you a king. Not here. Not to these people, and not in this kingdom or any other. Not anymore," she murmured quietly, eyes as stern as ever. Slowly, Jorgoff lowered his cards to the table and watched in concern, but Yetsh paid him no heed. "You can not walk around expecting people to treat—"

Kessian tried to sit up taller in the chair, nearly bonking foreheads with her. "I am royalty!"

"Not anymore!" Yetsh raised her voice, jerking Kessian's chair back on its hind legs. Kessian scrambled to hold onto the seat and keep his balance, but Yetsh wouldn't let the chair fall even if he lost it.

Never had Yetsh raised her voice at him. Never would anyone dare to raise their voice to him. Raising your voice at royalty, while you were of a lower station, could be punished. Depending on the ruler you offended, sometimes it could be punished cruelly, but now — now the little beady-eyed prince had no power, and the thought was suddenly marching to war drums in the forefront of his mind. For once, Kessian sat with a slack jaw and wide eyes, sitting still in the chair.

"You cannot continue to expect people to treat you as Kessian Rush, Snake of Ixynn. You cannot expect people to be kind, gentle, or respectful to you. They will not follow your orders, they will not take pity. You are no longer who you were. You are a peasant, a traveling boy who doesn't know anything about the world or how to deal with people. Do you understand me? If you don't start watching yourself, these men are going to get violent. You will get us in trouble, and we could all die. Do you understand?" Yetsh's eyes blazed while she spoke, wide and intense.  
  
  


Kessian was quiet, flicking his eyes over her face. Where did this come from? Why... how dare she yell at him! Some part of his stomach lifted to his chest in burning anger, but an overwhelming wave of nausea extinguished the flame when he met her eyes again, suddenly feeling the strength leave his mouth. He just managed a meager nod, and Yetsh's face immediately relaxed back into its passive stoicism. She set the chair flat on its legs, standing and rubbing at her palm, marked from the grip she held on the chair.

Kessian looked down, blinking to try and bat the uneasy shock away with his eyelashes. He licked his lips, and Jorgoff coughed quietly, tapping a card against the table awkwardly. "So... who's going to tell me why we're here, now?"

Kessian had forgotten. He hadn't told Jorgoff what his plan was before he executed it at the castle, and telling him what had happened afterwards was less urgent than other things. Kessian lifted his head, composure regained, as Yetsh plopped heavily in a chair across from him, leaning back with a creak of the wood like it was a pathetic rocking chair. "I told you, Jorgoff," Kessian said, rubbing the holes in his nose where his Dramme were. He still wasn't used to it.

Sorting his thoughts, Kessian shook his black-haired head. "I had a plan set in place for the Coronation Day. It went wrong."

"What plan?"

"Have you heard of the Red Smocking, Jorgoff?" Kessian asked suddenly, steepling his hands and leaning his elbows on the table, inspecting his nails and picking dirt from them.

"Sounds like a snake?"

"It is. A very venomous, deadly snake. I had Yetsh fetch some of its venom from a black-market apothecary outside the city and put it into the red wine served to the Ring Table on Coronation Day. Not too much — you don't need a lot." He lifted a hand with his fingers an inch and a half apart. "The bottle was that big. We used half of it. I'm positive they're dead by now." Kessian watched Jorgoff's growing shock and disbelief, but carried on with his story. "Jaldien was supposed to drink it as well, but for some reason this year, she decided to abstain," Kessian wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "She wasn't supposed to. She always drinks the wine. Gods damn her, she ruined it all."

Jorgoff was quiet for a moment before swallowing, and Kessian picked a piece of dried mud from his finger. Then Jorgoff's words reached him, hardly more than a breath. "But... why?"

"Because it was poetic. What better to kill the Snakes than Venom from another Snake?"

"No — Kessian, why did you try to kill your siblings?" Jorgoff asked a tad loudly, snapping his head up to look at the young lord. "They are kind and sensible people—"

"Fools. Overbearing fools with no stomachs, who think they know everything. Their wills are weak and they sit idly by while everyone else grows stronger around us. They sit and do nothing, and they never listen. So I did what I had to."

"...I hope they're okay," Jorgoff whispered, but Kessian let it go with a roll of his eyes.  
  
  
  


It took another two days to reach the coast.

The Siren Skipper stopped to port one more time before making its way to sea for the month-long fair-weather trip of traveling to Shra. The three fugitives took the opportunity to explore the port city. Yetsh had been doubtful, but Jorgoff was persistent, so the three of them were now walking down the poorly-cobbled street, dodging people carrying crates of odorous fish and wagons heaped with fisherman's tools. As much as it smelled like salt and fish, the town was almost lucratively wealthy. So much so that the families that founded the trade industries here were rich to the point of being nobility. Places of business were decked with paint and strewn with fine fabrics, with paint that was nearly as vibrant as the jewelry and tasteful palettes of passing individuals.

"How did you get passage on that ship, anyway?" Jorgoff asked, his lifted head painted with his usual smile. "None of us had money on us when we ran."

"Hush! Yell for all of Kelly-Dilly to hear, why don't you?" Kessian scolded, but the other two ignored him.

"Malik used to be a colleague of mine. We were both part of the same mercenary group, twelve cycles ago." Yetsh said plainly, eyes on the busy roads ahead of them.

"Mercenary group? I didn't know you were a mercenary!" Jorgoff's eyes lit up with intrigue.

Yetsh's dark eyes swiveled to their corners to glimpse down at the servant boy, a ghost of a smile drawing up the corner of her lips. "Where else would someone learn to fight like I do?"

"I never thought about it much. I had assumed you were taught at an academy or something."

This actually brought out a breath akin to a laugh from Yetsh's mouth, her head quirking back towards the sky. "No academy. I had a few teachers that helped me more than I could say, but it was a lot of personal learning, too. It's not just about the blade or your body. Your mind has to be in.." she kept talking, but Kessian had lost interest. He turned his unwelcoming brown eyes to the bustling city around them. The air smelled of water-infused wood and winter carried up across the winds from the sea, despite winter still being many days away.

The leaves had only started to redden on the trees last they had been in the city. Though the season's progress was hard to track given the lack of trees on the plains between Terune's Sorrow and the little town they shuffle along in now. The wind and the clouds certainly never helped, blown in by the ocean to obscure the sky and keep it cold for most of the Cycle.

The variety of people were was at least somewhat interesting, Kessian had found. Usually port towns were brimming with Enogen and Dwarves and this town was no exception, though there were Enogen and Dwarves who were obviously not from Gressyk. Kessian could spy Aldeyans, Morrish, and a band of Shrian gnomes right here on the main dock road. Where the water didn't flow on this street, it seemed coin did. Shops opposed the water, pressed together so tightly that it looked like they'd almost been built into each other.

"Kessian—" the boy felt a nudge to his shoulder, but didn't bother looking at Jorgoff.  
  
  


The servant could tell from the twist in his lord's mouth that he'd gotten his attention, even if the cold eyes didn't move to look at him. Jorgoff was fine with this — he understood. Kessian's attitude didn't go unnoticed back in the castle. 'More than he deserves,' he'd heard a few lower-tier servants say, no more than a year ago. 'That little rat of a child... Have you seen the way he looks at people?' There were things Jorgoff was sore to leave behind, but bid the sneering servents good riddance. He knew better. He knew Kessian didn't.

"What, Jorgoff?" Kessian finally sighed, narrowed eyes glowering down the road ahead. A wary older man holding a crate of fish paused with wide eyes, then slowly backed out of the road until they had passed, bewildered and wary gaze following them. Jorgoff blinked at the man, then back down at the boy he called sire — the boy only a few cycles younger than himself. "We're going to sell the Dramme so we can get some supplies," he says, reeling his brain back into its train of thought.

"Who's going to buy Dramme?" Kessian scoffs, tossing his messy hair out of his face. "Ceyn doesn't exactly hold our tradition."

"No, but we could say they're earrings. And yours will sell really well," Jorgoff pulled the little trinkets out of his bag and inspected them in his hand, smiling faintly. His and Yetsh's were nicer than most, but fewer and less decorative than Kessian's. The Prince's Dramme were gold-laced silveroak, wound with green thread so fine it looks like spider silk. In the center of each Dramme were tiny emerald chips, no bigger than a needle point. Painstaking to make, and polishing them improperly would immediately cost you out of house and home.

Without another word the three of them then kept an eye out for a jeweler, until Jorgoff glanced at Yetsh. "Don't you think a jeweler would be a bit further inland? It's a lot of small pieces, and the river floods sometimes. Flooding a shop of tiny expensive things sounds like a bad idea. It's probably further back up the hill."

Yetsh looked at him quietly for a moment, nothing in her expression but a blink of her steady black eyes. "That makes sense," she turned her gaze to the narrow cobble streets of the city. Jorgoff followed her gaze, and let out a breath. You could practically see all the way through the city, at least until the rise of the hill blocks it out. Alabos Hold was a maze of buildings, and the grey streets writhed through them like they were struggling to find open air. This town, though... even this coin-rattling port town was so much more beautiful than the Ixynn capital.

Jorgoff's chest bumped forward when Yetsh clapped his back, wordlessly starting down the lane in front of them. A grin leapt onto the servant's face like a sheep over a fence trying to put a boy to sleep. He shoved his fist-full of jewelry back into his bag and hurried after her, calling for Kessian to follow.

It didn't take long. Half-way up the hill of the town they found a luxurious-looking jewelry shop. The sign above it read "Bilits and Silvers," and Jorgoff read it out with intrigue. "I wonder what a 'bilits' is?" he looked to Yetsh, then Kessian curiously. Kessian just shook his head with a scowl, and Yetsh ran a hand through her loose ponytail. "Slang, probably," she said thoughtfully, peering in through the curved panes of glass composing the windows.  
  
  


Kessian watched Jorgoff push into the shop, hesitating before he felt Yetsh's presence at his side. Her hovering hand guded his shoulder into the shop, and his shuffling feet followed.

Before Yetsh could even close the green-painted door behind her the two boys jumped back, Kessian's back crashing into her ill-prepared frame. It sounded like the shop was coming down around them, a thundering crash that left your ears ringing and made you squeeze your eyes shut before you could even see what happened.

Kessian slowly creaked his eyes open, peeking out from around the willowy frame of his servant that was sandwiching him between the bodyguard behind. What met his eyes wasn't what he was expecting. The shop still stood— in fact, it seemed as if nothing was amiss. Confusing, given that it sounded as if the world was shattering beneath his very feet.

Kessian stepped out from the cocoon of bodies, walking towards the door at the back of the shop. The unpainted wooden slats so often used to make doors swing open with enough force that the rope handle slaps against the curled iron holding the slats together. And as the door swung open, all of the tension seemed to die in the room.  
  
  


A dwarf.

Make no mistake — had the dwarf been from Morrin, the tension in the room would have dropped far less. But this was a Grescian dwarf. Shorter than their Aldeyan cousins, and nowhere near as bulky as the Morrish, Grescian dwarves have complections as ruddy as the humans here, completed by stocky bodies and square faces. Their color palettes are similar to their human neighbors, with slightly tanned but still pale skin, often misted over with red around joints and face. The hair of a Grescian dwarf can be found either frizzy or straight, but always long and in colors of ginger or blonde. Older dwarves are grey, and it's rare to find a Grescian dwarf with black hair.

Jorgoff smiled. Ah, you might be thinking, but dwarves stay in their mountains and rarely tempt the sun! Perhaps in Morrin, or Alderyn. But here in Gressyk, the dwarves can be found often on the surface, and— according to some— appreciate the sun more than those who casually live in it. Dwarves were a common sight in Ceyn, especially in Alabos Hold, being nested in the lap of the mountains.

This dwarf in particular had hair that looked as if it had been made with gold, then bleached in the sunshine. His face was tanned from the sun, rosy and dotted with freckles, capped by blue-green eyes. He wore a thin embroidered tunic of bright green and hose of a similar yellow. They reminded Jorgoff of the imported fruit he'd seen in the castle kitchens— though he'd only seen such colorful fruit once, and it was a lucky find. A mantle lay draped overtop the embroidered tunic: brown, but ridged like a gambeson. Each time the quilt met itself was studded with blue or red beads, and the pattern itself was stitched with silver thread. A hat sat upon the head of this little man, flopped over like a muffin had collapsed in on itself. Jewelry jangled when he stepped through the door.  
  
  


It was one of the oddest sights Kessian had seen. The colors nearly made him dizzy, even in the darkness of the building. He stood to Jorgoff's side, and he could feel his two companion's stunned silence as heavy in the air as his own. He didn't know what to think, but was saved from opening a conversation when the unusual looking dwarf cleared his throat.

"Eh-hem. Good morning! Sorry about that ruckus. How can I help you?" he tucked his thick fingers into the fabric of his tunic and jerked it downwards. Funny, his voice wasn't nearly so boisterous as his clothes would suggest it would be.

As Jorgoff quietly whispered 'what's a ruckus,' Kessian stepped forwards, chin lifted with his usual regal aire.  
  
  


The boy was smudged with dirt, scratched and splintered, and his hair and clothes were an unwashed mess. He looked like a child with a penchant for running off into the woods at eve and not returning until the next morning. His black hair looked more like a bramble patch in its sad-looking ponytail, but his eyes held an intensity that piqued the dwarf's curiosity.

Smoothing down his tunic once more, the dwarf folded his hands to wait for the child to speak. For some reason it was clear he was the one who was going to, even though a much more intimidating adult stood behind him.

"We want to sell some earrings," the boy spoke. Though the words were simple, his eyes spoke a different tone— like he was instead commanding a squadron to execute war prisoners. The dwarf felt his chest shudder with a quiet chuckle in spite of himself, and he opened his arms out. "Well, let's see what you have brought to me, then!"  
  
  


The room was deafeningly quiet as the dwarf counted out the dramme, appraising them with a careful eye. He did many things: he poked and scratched, he squinted and squeezed, he held the small intricate rings up to the light, and Kessian was watching Jorgoff's entertained face follow the bunching and unbunching of the jeweler's face.

"Earrings, are they?" the dwarf lowered the dramme he had pinched between his thick thumb and forefinger, his brow lifted in a face that said he knew better.

"Of course they're earrings. Are you calling me a liar?" Kessian narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to the dwarf despite the hand Jorgoff laid on his shoulder.

But, strangely enough, the dwarf only chuckled.

"I am Calim Forsmust. Do any of you know what that means?"

Kessian's eyes flicked upwards when he caught the shake of Jorgoff's head. Calim smiled. "It means I have very good eyes. And you two," the dwarf slipped his middle finger into the handle of a handleholder, lifting it up towards the paler faces of Kessian and Jorgoff. "Have piercing holes. Nose," the blue green eyes meet Kessian's, and for some reason something in the prince's spine stiffened. "And eyebrows," the candle swung up to the taller Jorgoff's face, and the shopkeep could hardly reach.

"And from the number of trinkets you handed me, I can assume you have some as well, though I know not where," the jeweler smiled up at Yetsh before sitting down again. "So what are these, really?"

There was a strong stretch of silence that wrestled with the air in the room. In a snap of the tense quiet, the dwarf leaned back in his chair, the candle playing with the shadows of the windowless shop. "If you don't tell me, I don't see why I should buy them from you. A shame, given how valuable some of them are," he picked out the three Silveroak ones— Kessian's old Dramme. "A bit muddy, but still valuable."

There was another pause, and each could feel the dwarf's gaze staring into them. Yetsh's chest rumbled behind Kessian's head as she took a breath and sighed it out. "They're Ixynn Dramme."

Kessian missed the dwarf's reaction — in fact, it took him a moment to realize he had closed his eyes. When he blinked them open again the dwarf was opening his mouth to speak. "Dramme. Dramme... mmn. Aaaah." Kessian could physically watch the realization manifest in the shopkeeper's eyes as he lifted his head. Something in their intensity changed and flickered, and Kessian could swear their color twinged just a bit.

"...You three aren't being very careful, are you?" the dwarf scooped the Dramme up into his palm and closed his fingers around them. He shook his fist, listening to the jewelry jangle. "Walking into a shop like this, in a city busy as this one, with fresh piercing holes and shiny Dramme. You're the littlest Prince, aren't you?" The dwarf stood and leaned his fists on the table, staring at the boy. Kessian's heart reminded him of the hooves of a donkey, the kind the knights ride in their jousting tournaments.

Kessian swallowed and lifted his chin, looking down his nose at the intense dwarf. "It doesn't matter to you who I am or why I'm here. Will you buy the Dramme, or should we find another merchant?"

Another long pause followed, a slow grin smoothing across the suntanned face of the shopkeep. "Not careful at all. Here," he reached into a hole in the desk he sits in front of, pulling out a piece of velum covered in script. All three of them leaned forward, and Kessian nearly lost his balance when his two companions bumped him, catching himself with a step forward. Smoothing down his dirty peasant clothes, he scanned the document.

The paper was written in neat calligrapher's hand, and Kessian doubted it was any hand other than the jeweler's. It spoke of the finality of the transaction, that the objects sold or bought cannot be re-bought or sold-back. "'This manuscript is provided for transactions worth over a Korren'?" Jorgoff's recited with a slack jaw, and Calim nodded: "I did say valuable, did I not?"

"We need that in Ruks." Kessian cut in, voice grating against the delighted shock in the air. He drew the eyes of all in the shop, and the merchant nodded. "There's the caution you'd expect of someone with expensive teaching. Of course."

"But how much is it all?" Jorgoff piped up, eyes big with anticipation.

The dwarf was quiet for a moment, taking the time to scratch down a couple figures onto a piece of velum on his desk. "One Korren and two Jir," he announced then, bringing his head up to aim a smile at the three runaways. "Or— in your case, one hundred and twenty Ruks. It will take me a bit of time to count the coins out for you."

Yetsh reached forwards for the quill resting atop the velum, but Calim jerked a hand up, the smile unflinching from his bearded face. "Let the little Prince sign, won't you?"

Yetsh's eyes narrowed, but Kessian swooped in and plucked the quill from her grasp with a smug sense of triumph. He stepped forwards, and even though he could feel Yetsh's mental protest, signed the velum in fine script upon the line; 'Kessian Rush.' Oddly enough, the ink put down by the quill was red, not black... but Kessian only paid it a second of thought before pushing the velum back down the desk, setting the quill on top.


	6. Chapter Five: Don't Tell Mother

Ji'Ranesh stretched out around the city beyond the window, gaping and cavernous as any void, like a waiting mouth stretched around the Citadel. Like a red-scaled dragon, perched upon its mighty moated rock.

It could feel it in its sternum. Or through it, really. A cold and hollow feeling, one it was very familiar with— the feeling it was born to have.

"It's time for another culling," its low words fell like golden stones in a pool, and though the sun was high overhead, the stone room suddenly felt cold, as if all the braziers had doused and the silks had threaded away into dust.

"You betray your purpose." They had to interrupt its serenity.

A dull rumble of a laugh scraped up its ancient throat at the words. "My purpose?" It turned, relishing in the slow shift of fabric as it turned to face them. "And how, pray tell, am I accomplishing such a feat?"

Their mouth opened, ready to spit cold steel, but it had no intention of letting them finish. "Those who must die," its own mouth pulled into an unkind smile as they slowly gestured to the window, moving as if in water. "Die. And She mustn't be cross with me, for my wings I still have."

They spat at its dressed feet. "You get by without honor. Hiding behind them, keeping your dusty hands clean. The black fades from your fingers as you stand by-"

"Winged. Watching those who must die, die. You speak more as if to be a child of Kallel and not Myriad." It stepped closer, and they suddenly felt its hostility, unspoken and unexpressed... yet nearly suffocating. It spoke once again when their mouth opened, and it could tell they concluded it loved interrupting. "You have overstayed your welcome in my presence, Brother mine. You are free to watch the deaths of the Still and steep in your embarrassment of confronting me. And here," it lifted a spindly hand behind its back and flicked the wrist. It then offered up a single long, ash-dust feather in a pale palm. "A reminder," its head tilted with its unpleasant smile, "of your asininity."

They prickled with rage, eyeless face contorting with a sharp-toothed snear. They snatched the feather from the offered hand, destroying the vane in the clench of a trembling fist. "You _will_ fall. Mark my words, I will see you fall— not just wingless but headless as well." It watched them stand for a moment more in silence before hearing them snarl once final time, storming past it. It gave it no mind— to the point where it didn't turn to watch them leave. Instead, it moved back to the window.

"Funny they mentioned headless," it rasped to itself, counting the seconds.

Twelve. "Mother," Thump.

It smiled again. This time it was wide. Smug. Toothless. It turned back around, twisted up in its black rose of a dress.

"Good job, children. Come," it lifted its left hand out, and watched the three grown Folk clamber from their bows and step over their severed head to grasp at the hand, pushing their cheeks up against it.

"We shall make a new decoration," It rasped out another laugh, like pebbles rattling around in a hollowed gourd. "Soon we'll have our full collection. Take it and make it pretty, Bev'yan," it cooed to the old halfling man at its palm. He looked up with eager eyes and nodded through a wrinkled smile, eager to please Mother.

The three Folk retreated, and it watched Bev'yan take their fallen head in his hand, bloodless and limp, and turn to leave and complete his mission.

"No. I am the one who never falls," it whispered to the empty room.


	7. Chapter Six: Kingsnake

They'd been sitting in this shop long enough for boredom to set in amongst the two boys. That being said, there was little in their minds for time to eat away that wasn't already consumed by frazzled impatience. The steady 'clink, clink, clink' of little wooden coins was slowly driving Kessian Rush to the brink of madness — like he hadn't been close to that threshold anyway.

_Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink. Clink, clink. Clink, clink, clink._

_Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, cl-_ "Are you done yet?" the little prince shoved himself to his feet off the little grungy stool he had been invited to perch upon by the dwarven shopkeep.

The dwarf didn't even look up, quickly marking something down with a quill before resuming his counting. _Clink, clink, clink_ \- "Patience, boy. You asked for it all in Ruks. I'm giving you what you wanted," the dwarf spoke in an unbothered way, which in turn only bothered Kessian more.

"If you do not hurry, then we will be out of passage, and it will be your fault!" the young prince snaps, stalking up to Jorgoff. The servant had passed out on a stool in the corner and was currently leaned back, wedged in what could only have been a rather uncomfortable position, with his head back and drool dripping from his snoring mouth. Kessian lifted a dirty hand — got briefly distracted in rubbing some dried mud from his middle finger — and reached up to lightly smack his fingers against the side of Jorgoff's jaw that remained dry.

Jorgoff's eyes slowly lifted, like an iron cullis gate, too heavy for its wheel. Pale eyelids, faintly veined with blue bolts of lightning, rose to reveal a great void surrounded by rings of greyed amber. Jorgoff blinked a few times and his eyes focused, head lowering. His mouth finally closed into a sleepy smile, catching sight of his master. "Oh, g'morning," he hummed, wiping his drool with a sleeve.

Kessian scoffed through the corner of his curled lip, eyes narrowing. He just glowered at Jorgoff a moment longer before turning in his spot to look at Yetsh, who was standing stock-still towards the center of the room, eyes closed and hands hovering palm-down at her chest in some strange stance that made no sense to him. "Both of you! Can you not remain conscious for one errand?" he growled in his teeth, walking back over to his stool. He sulked there for a moment more before peering closer at Yetsh.

"Who said I was asleep?" she spoke, without a crinkle of her eye. Kessian leaned back on his stool, squinting his eyes. "I don't—"

"Of course you don't. You don't pay attention past first light."

"First — what are you on about, Yetsh?" Kessian had drawn his face, nose scrunched and mouth open, but every head in the room snapped up at once. Voices, muffled and crying out on the street. Yelling something, and getting closer.

Jorgoff looked around at the other three faces in the room: two his companions, one a shopkeep who had paused in his final lines of coin. Kessian's eyes were big and he looked stiff. Yetsh had gone still as a deer ready to spring, and the shopkeep seemed to be listening. Nothing moved. It almost seemed like no one breathed.

The calls rounded. Again, again, louder, clearer, again, again... there. He could understand parts of it. "Criminals... Ixynn... bounty... report... immediately." And they kept sounding off, the heralds moving straight past the shop. They heard the full message as they passed by.

Jorgoff could feel every blood-filled vein in his body freeze over. News had already arrived in Ceyn.

"How?" he breathed, bugged eyes flicking between his companions. Yetsh let out a strained breath and turned towards the shopkeep. He sat exactly as he had been, counting coins. He glanced up when Yetsh turned, but lifted a finger when her lip fell. "Bu-bu-bu! Not until I've counted them out," he placed a few more coins atop the pile, lips moving with silent numbers. He then stood and Yetsh motioned Kessian over, and quickly the coins were split among the several pouches on his belt.

Kessian buttoned the last pouch and — the dwarf snatched his arm. Panic briefly flashed up in Kessian's belly before he braced himself, snapping up the man's gaze with what he hoped was a fierce scowl. A slow smile crawled its way up the shopkeep's tanned face. "Remember: caution, Kessian Rush. You've gotten yourself into a new world of trouble — one most unfamiliar to you." He shook his head, and nausea began to sour the tough bread in the boy's stomach. "And there's no going back."

Kessian yelled and jerked his arm back, Yetsh's rough grip on his ribs as she caught him from crashing to the ground, hauling him upright and almost backwards. The three companions had suddenly clustered very close together, each one leaning towards the door. The servant quickly reached over to help right Kessian's balance, looking between the prince and his guard. "We should go before Ceyn guards begin searching the wharf. They'll only move inland from there," he grunted, urgent voice raspy in Kessian's ear. The boy pulled his arms from the still-clinging hands of his companions and turned towards the door, pulling the rope to open the door only enough for his little brown eye to peer through. While he looked he rubbed an absent palm over his singing ribs, briefly cursing Yetsh's reckless strength.

"I don't see anyone of note," Kessian lifted his head, only to nearly smack it on Jorgoff's chin. "Jorgoff," the little prince hissed, reaching back to push him. "Get away."

Yetsh puffed and pulled the door all the way open, stepping out beneath the eaves of the shop. "The heralds are passed by; quickly," she waved a hand, keeping her gaze fixed out on the streets in case her judgement was too hasty. Kessian quickly stepped out beneath her arm, and with one last look back at the shopkeeper, Jorgoff followed suit.

The three of them tumbled out into the cobbled pathway running like veins between the buildings of Jinni city, shaken and set on the ship that will take them away from Gressyk. Yetsh led the way with Kessian and Jorgoff on her heels, retracing the steps they took to get here, eyes on the busy wharf at the base of the hill. They could see the glittering water of the giant river from the cobbles they stood upon, boots tamping as they skipped down the stones.

As the Ixynn fugitives turned to step out into the colorful throngs of people walking in waves down the bay, the large warrior of a woman quickly lifted her hands and pressed the backs of them into the boys' chests, pushing them back. "What is it?" Jorgoff blinked and angled his head in an attempt to see past the large frame of the Bossk woman, but to no avail as she pushed him back again.  
  
  


"There are guards on the ports," the Bossk woman growled, eyes narrowing as she watched the armored figures move about ships and docks, speak to merchants, and lightly harass bystanders.

With a snort the woman rubbed at her nose, then gave in to the plan she'd already formed in her head, hoping Kessian wouldn't complain too loudly. Moving her hands to the boys' shoulders she stepped back and pulled them in tow, turning left to move parallel to the city front with a line of buildings between them.

"Where are we going?" Kessian asked, but his tone held grim thoughtfulness instead of whiny accusation. "I assume the ship is being watched — how will we get on, then?"

Briefly grateful for the boy's maturity in the moment, Yetsh sighed before responding. "We're going to have to move farther down and travel beneath the docks, then climb up through a gun port."

"But that'll put us on the edge if not in the water," Jorgoff protested softly, concern softening his voice.

"And that went so well last time," Kessian muttered dryly, and Yetsh could feel her jaw pulse as she flexed her patience. "What choice do we have?" she countered quietly, keeping her eyes out as they marched down the streets through the tides of people. "The sooner we get out of here, the better. Jorgoff was right, they'll only move inland from here."

"Can't we just wait for them to leave the docks, then?" Yetsh could hear the raised brow in Kessian's voice and shook her head. "No. They won't leave the docks completely— it's the most used entrance and exit of the city. They'd be fools to leave it unchecked, and Jaldien's not a fool."

"Maybe we should get some rope to be safe," Jorgoff suggested, and only then did Yetsh glance down at him. There was a moment's pause from her as they walked, then the warrior nodded. "Another good idea. There's usually plenty sat about in ports." she murmured, lifting her eyes again to try and spot some rope.  
  
  
  


Their boots snapped quietly at the stones that sat nestled into the dirt, hurrying down the road. Slowly the cobbles of the road were darkening, becoming colder and slicker with the slow pats of small raindrops, fat and lazy, finally falling from the thick grey pillows that had been floating across the sky for days.

Jorgoff had found a pile of rope laying atop a barrel outside a bait and tackle shop, and managed to swipe the length of woven fiber without anyone noticing. It wasn't long, but it'd be enough.

They now stood down-river of the shipyard, knotted and tied together by the waists. Yetsh was to go first, in case either of the boys were swept from their feet. Kessian had been nervously watching the water rush past their boots, listening to its hissing as it launched chunks of ice down its face, like it was waiting for them to step in. Like it was a giant serpent, ready to swallow them up.

The distance they stood from the wooden platform tread by sailor and soldier alike was so close that, if she stretched, Kessian figured Yetsh could reach it. Fortunately it was taller than even her formidable figure, and no one had, so far, any reason to look down beneath their boots, and the hoods that had risen from the rain-spattered cloaks blocked the runaways from any keen periphery.

The rain was nearly as cold as the icy blood of the Serpent, and combined soaked the three cloakless rats to their miserable bones, the tortuous water so cold they were quickly beginning to lose feeling in their feet. Glancing behind him, Kessian noted that even Jorgoff was no longer smiling, head hunched into his shoulders and hands wrapped around his bumpy arms — the little that did.

After a ways of walking they began coming to the wharf, and Yetsh's boots braced to pause, sucking in a strained breath through her nose that Kessian could hear even above the river's hissing. Kessian lifted his head to try and see the cause of her reticence, but all he found was an ice-cold drop of fat rain in his left eye. Blinking with a sibilant hiss, he felt a tug on the rope around his waist and jerked forwards once more, feeling shorter than ever as his feet sink potholes into the sand. Once he regained his albeit blurry vision, he turned his head at the sudden darkness that overcame them.

What light managed to weakly filter through the clouds and retain its strength enough to flutter to the world below was blocked out by the wood of the first wharf overhead. There was no ship docked here, and so fewer pats of a boot trundled along the boards a mere finger length above Yetsh's braided skull. Each pair of eyes watched the planks above, listening for the quick gaits that make the rain-darkened boards tremble and shake. As a pair of wooden-heeled boots made their way past, Yetsh grabbed Kessian by the shoulder and pulled him along with her, hauling him forwards as they sloshed through the water. The bodyguard's sodden boots sloughed up sheets of water as the two forces met, the roaring liquid giving way to the Bossk's leg.

Kessian, on the other hand, had a mad flurry nearly every step where he fought to keep his feet, Yetsh moving much faster with her stronger, longer legs. Yetsh's unbending grip on his arm pulled Jorgoff forwards as well, but thanks to the tension of the rope, Kessian thought, he did not seem to struggle. Soon the cover of a second creaking wharf was at their heads, shielding the waterlogged group from the rain that only seemed to grow colder and fatter as they waddled through the river's ire.

Soon, they began to pass ships. As the rain grew heavier, so did their clothes. The sky became darker alongside it, the light of the weakened sun blocked out by malevolent rain. And Kessian began to stare at the planks of the ships they passed, moored farther out in the lethal river, too far to make out details in the rain. Then a thought crept into his mind: "How will we know which one is ours?" The prince practically had to yell to be heard above rain and river, and he watched Yetsh's chin lift immediately to check the shore-goers, as if she were afraid they would somehow hear them above all this wretched roaring water. Kessian just scowled back at the boats— he didn't turn his gaze so southerly as to spy the water. In fact, being in it for so long was making the bread in his stomach start to churn again. Or, maybe, that was because of the way his blood was starting to feel like clumps of ice beneath his slowly bluing skin.

Still, Kessian awaited an answer that seemed as if it would never come. So, in a typical fit of indignance, the boy lifted his fist and smacked it against the bone that ridged the woman's thumb, right at the bump where thumb met palm, but she didn't release him. Her hand was hurting his shoulder! He'd be bruised, no doubt. The thought boiled in some part of his brain, but the young boy chose to set the guard's misstep aside for the moment in favor of getting out of this Gods-damned port town alive and free. Yetsh's dark eyes turned down to meet his, gaze nearly as stormy as the torrent around them. "We'll figure it out," she snarled, though she quickly turned her face away, like she would never let her eyes rest in one spot, moving just as fast as the river and rain.

They passed from wharf to wharf, legs sloshing and clothes clinging to their frames. Hair stuck to faces, breaths clawed out of iced lungs, flesh turned clammy and numb. Vaguely Kessian began to wonder if the water was rising, mind feeling nearly as muffled as his legs as he watched the water lap at his upper thighs, like the river was trying to swallow them up.  
  
  


Yetsh was glowering through the rain. She was frozen to the core, but she refused to let her mind slow down as she pulled Kessian along, arm locked in place with the tension of Jorgoff's rope hardly registering enough to bother. Her only focus now was getting through this, through the river and the rain and the rabble trying to haul them back. She didn't realize that she was puffing through her mouth, because her nose kept filling with rain. Nor did she notice how blurry her vision became, with water in her eyes and water in the air. Some part of her mind, some tiny corner, remembered a legend of drowned skeletons that would reach their hands up, seeking to drown others for company. Wondered, for a half of a breath, if her hand would clasp at an ankle in this field of ships.

But with a toss of her water-heavy head she squinted through the rain, eyes flicking between watching for the darkened figures of thick cloaks above and feverishly trying to weed out the Siren Skipper from the other ships. Though she gave an obscure answer to Kessian, Yetsh knew how she'd figure out which was their ship from down here. She just hoped they'd get to it before the water rose any further. Her knees were almost submerged, and when the water gets that high, moving will be even harder, and her legs were already shaking from hauling the two boys. But haul them she did, for some degree of peace of mind.

In truth, being seen down here was less of a risk than being swept and drowned beneath the water, but Yetsh had a different concern on her mind. Amidst the searching, she was also thinking about how easily they'll be noticed when they climb up the docks. Climbing up the ship wasn't only extremely difficult normally— nevermind slicked with rain— but the ships were too far out into the river to survive.   
  
  


Jorgoff was struggling. He had his eyes shut tighter than the lips of an oyster, guarding its pearl as fiercely as a dragon in a faerietale. He was whispering to himself to "keep going, one more step." The mud clung to his boots and tried to suck his foot back down every time he lifted it, and what he could feel of his shins and knees almost felt bruised by the icy waters. He could feel his breath, ragged and battling in his lungs. It almost felt like tons of tiny needles, probably from the cold, he thought. But he could feel something wrong.

Blinking his eyes open, the servant lifted his head. Most of his once sand-colored hair was freed of its pitiful ponytail and trying to make its way into his mouth, sticking to his skin in clumps that he couldn't unlock his arms to move and the rain wouldn't push aside. He tried his voice, calling Yetsh's name, but it seemed the words were swallowed by the storm. With a heavy churn of air from his lungs he opened his mouth to call again, but it fell short once more. Before he could try again, the river reared its head and crashed its brow into his legs, and Jorgoff's Aldeyan lungs were now gulping in icy water. The shock nearly sent his mind into darkness, and surrounded by the noise and sights and feelings? He would have welcomed it. Just to get away.  
  
  


Jorgoff's loss of footing meant he was at the river's mercy— and the river tugged hard, pulling on Kessian's rope. Kessian yelped as Yetsh lost her grip, eyes wide before he plunged down into the Serpent's Maw, blindly scrabbling at the mud with puffed up cheeks. He didn't inhale water, but he couldn't find purchase to stand. Even if he could, Jorgoff's weight would no doubt pull him under again.  
  
  


Yetsh let out a cry of panic as she too lost her footing, but she didn't go under. All three started to slide back, the bodyguard on her bum. She spit out the water in her mouth and quickly wheeled to plant a foot behind her, eyes dashing to one of the supports holding up a wharf and with her other foot pushed for it, leaping to her height and reaching out her arms to grab on. But the river pulled too hard, and she could barely reach. It slipped from her hand, but she slammed back-first into the second support of the same decking. It knocked the air from her lungs and she could feel herself already slipping from it. Right as the river started to play its game of tug of war again with a choppy surge of water, she twisted and wrapped herself around the support. The river's power could not ring her from the pole, and so Yetsh began to quickly think as she searched for the forms of the boys in the water.

Looking down, she let herself slide back into a sitting position, the water sending renewed goosebumps up her body as it soaks into her lower back. But around the pillar she clasped her legs, locking them together with a cross of her ankles, and fixed her numbed knuckles around the rope affixing them together. Still coughing for air she swallowed and sucked in a deep breath, then hauled on the rope with all her might, so much that a roar of effort rumbled out of her tensed throat. Teeth bared and arms shook and belly ached, but Yetsh hauled and hauled even though the rope felt like it was skinning her softened fingers.  
  
  


Kessian's head finally broke the surface of the water when he could grasp Yetsh's leg and use it to push his head up, body bumping against the support beam as he coughed water and inhaled to try and appease his yowling lungs. Yetsh quickly drew him close and sat him in her lap so that he might cling to the beam as well, safe in place as she continued to haul on the rope and hope Jorgoff would open his eyes. Kessian watched her work, face speckled with dirt and pale blue with cold. He sat with his legs around the beam as well and set his hands to the rope. He didn't know if he was helping, but he didn't think about it twice for the shock had blanketed his mind and nulled his thinking.

Kessian saw the body of his life-long companion come into view only when it was right before him, and his smaller hands reached out to dig into the scruff of Jorgoff's tunic. He helped to haul the older boy close, pulling his head from the water. Liquid immediately leaked out of Jorgoff's nose and ears, and the servant did not move. Kessian and Yetsh worked together to pull him into their safe huddle, the bodyguard reaching around Kessian to punch at Jorgoff's chest, right below his ribs. Kessian watched his eyes open and water retch out of his mouth, leaving him coughing and gasping ragged gulps of air.  
  
  


The three of them sat there, struggling to regain enough physical and mental strength to continue pushing against the river. After what just happened... it almost seemed hopeless. But Yetsh wouldn't voice that— never. The thought made her angry, and that anger brought her enough strength. Maybe, maybe just enough. She shook Kessian in her lap, wordlessly urging him to move so she can stand. Kessian and Jorgoff shifted a bit, clinging to the pole, and Yetsh got to her feet once more. And she turned, and she braced, and she took a step away from the pole with a quiet prayer to Annin.

Fingers left pole, and Yetsh focused on just her breathing and her footing as she marched on, one slow step at a time, thinking only about not falling. Slowly the rope around her waist grew more and more taut, and she started to feel a pull.  
  
  


Kessian squinted through the downpouring storm, and watched Yetsh's big frame slog through the mud and water. Every time her foot lifted, a flash of fear rang through his chest. The water was definitely rising. Her legs sunk past her knees, now, and the water beat at his belly. But as the rope's slack became less, Kessian struggled to build up his courage— or at least that stubbornness he often used in its place— and started to walk as well.

If the little frame of Kessian Rush struggled in the river before, it was nothing compared to this. He held onto the rope in front of him, and half-walked half-dragged his way forwards through the water. It didn't beat as his joints, but now at his center of gravity. Over and over, the Maw threatened to knock him back into its jagged body, but Kessian kept his eyes pinned to the dark blot that was Yetsh's form and its rhythmic stomping. And soon, the rope behind him began to tug, too. He looked back, now, and saw Jorgoff doing much the same as he was: hands on the rope, practically falling forwards in his effort to walk against the water.  
  
  


Yetsh clapped her hands forwards hard enough to shake the ropes hanging from the next wharf's planked walkway. She wrapped herself around this next beam, and turned to being pulling the boys forwards. Yetsh's head snapped up when a yell crashed over the rain and river that thundered in her ears like a stampede of frightened Bullharks, and for a moment she froze. But she couldn't see the figure, and she couldn't afford to stop or rush. So the bodyguard kept pulling the rope, dragging them to safety. She leaned forwards to clasp their arm each time a boy reached her, pulling them to the beam and under the cover of the wharf.

There wasn't another yell that she could hear, and it was hard to tell what was a person and what was a roof in the face of the deluge. The water was still rising, and Yetsh could feel Kessian's violent trembling beneath her hand, though the boy seemed remiss of it. The Bossk head swung back to the ships, scowling to try and make out details. Then a breath of hope entered her lungs, and though it was no warmer than the rest of the wet air she'd swallowed, her chest lightened. A distinct figurehead, barely distinguishable from the rest of the ship. And its wharf wasn't far. They'd continue their newly-set pattern, but dread nagged at Yetsh's chest. It seemed like for every wharf they'd passed, the water had risen. The river now licked its tongues at Kessian's ribs, and spit spray in his face.

By the time they reached the wharf where she thought the Siren Skipper was moored, Kessian was holding his arms above the water and breathing fast. The three of them were piled up onto the beam, and Yetsh was looking at how to climb it. The wharf wasn't too high up, so she turned to Kessian and lifted him out of the water, keeping one leg on the other side of the beam, planted in the mud. With a breath— she noticed now that her own arms shook— she looked to the boy and spoke loud enough to be heard above the rain. His eyes met hers, and the rain-soaked head nodded when he understood. The bodyguard then took a breath and scrunched her muscles, bending slightly. She then jerked up and threw him, and they managed to clear the gap enough for Kessian to catch on with his arms and, though achingly slow, he clambered his way up.

Yetsh then turned her attention to Jorgoff, who still looked worse for wear after his plunge in the river. She couldn't throw him, he was too heavy. So instead she pulled him to her and took a breath, kneeling as low as she dared while clasping his wrists. Jorgoff took a breath and managed to finagle his knees onto her shoulders. With a push that made poor Jorgoff fight for balance, Yetsh forced her legs to stand, braced in hopes they would not fall. Jorgoff quickly grasped onto the wharf's ledge and pushed himself up with Kessian's help.

Now, Yetsh stood wondering how to get herself up. She looked down and drew the dagger from her belt, then lifted her other hand to try curling her raw fingers into one of the ropes wrapped around the beam. She got her grasp on it, and lifted her dagger to stab it into the pock-marked wood. She braced her foot on the wood, and with help of rope and dagger, she began her climb. Jorgoff and Kessian pulled on her rope from above, and though it helped some, they could not help her should she fall.

Yetsh plunged her dagger into the wood again. She neared the top, but as she stabbed her blade down it slipped off the wood. Knuckle banged on beam and blade sliced on skin before tumbling into the river. The dagger disappeared as if it had never been, and now warm blood fell from a long gash down the underside of Yetsh's forearm. Too far to reach the ledge, Yetsh felt painfully exposed. Ironically, she felt no pain from her new wound.  
  
  


Kessian turned his gaze to Jorgoff, who had jerked when Yetsh slipped. The older boy looked around before quickly crawling to the other side of the platform, rope still affixed to his waist. He peered off the side before beckoning Kessian over. The prince complied, scooting to the edge beside him. Jorgoff met his eyes straight-on and said two words: "slide off."

The words struck through the numbness in Kessian's mind and he sat back, expression saying it all. Jorgoff shook his head and jerked forwards, pushing the prince off the side of the wharf. Kessian's heart nearly stopped, and he couldn't help the scream that pulled from his throat. Nor could he get Jorgoff's nearly frantic eyes out of his mind. But the rope jerked, and Kessian hung from his waist, upside down above the river. His heart nearly fell to his mouth... or maybe it was bile. He was staring into the eyes of the Serpent, watching the bubbles on the surface crash by, just below his head. A little lower and he stretch out his arm and skim his fingertips down.

Just as that thought dawned, he fell down a few lengths and let out another squeal, curling his head up and twisting to grab onto the rope, determined not to be water-boarded by a dock. Then he dropped a bit further, and could feel the cold water bash against the back of his skull, chewing at his hair and scraping its foamy teeth against his scalp. He hung there with his eyes shut for what felt like forever, counting the thunderous wingbeats of his heart as it banged against his windpipe. He didn't realize he was being lifted until he felt hands grab him, and then he opened his eyes.

Yetsh was up, and she and Jorgoff were hauling up him. Kessian, in a bout of rage, slapped Jorgoff's hands off of him once he was up. Yetsh began to untie the ropes around them, and as soon as he was loose the prince stepped away and clung to himself.  
  
  


But for now, there were more important things than Kessian's sulking. Yetsh nudged the boys and glanced back at the people on the docks. They'd climbed up on the end of the wharf, and weren't far from the boarding ramp of the Siren Skipper, but it looked like Kessian's scream had attracted attention. Fortunately, it was the beady eyes of a little gnommish man with red hair and an angry disposition. He scurried down the gangplank and ushered them on with a frown. "Quick, get to the galley," he crowed.

Yetsh let them up, past two sailors waiting to pull up the gangplank. Malik had been expecting them, she assumed. The misfortunate fugitives made no pause in their way down below, Yetsh leading them to the galley. They were sat down around a fire, and started their effort to warm up.  
  
  


For now, they were safe.


	8. Chapter Seven: Thunder Snake

The ship was in chaos, nearly filled with as much motion as the haling world outside. Yetsh's legs had given out as soon as they got within a few paces of the galley's fire. Kessian kept his distance from Jorgoff, and the three sat trembling and wordless, wrapped in ratty blankets and sitting around the fire of the ship's kitchens. There was no chance at silence; Kessian couldn't make any particular sound out, even the crackle of the fire fell into step with the wrath of the water outside. His eyes wandered, but didn't focus on anything that fell into his blurry view.

Yetsh was propped up against a barrel, eyes closed and hair pulled back by the ship's cook. Even sitting still, Kessian's eyes could make out the colored blobs of her limbs shaking — but he didn't think on it any more. He refused to look at Jorgoff, instead returning his eyes to the fire and watching it dance to the thundering music of the drowning world outside the ship's walls.

Then the sound of thunder rumbled closer, over and over, and Kessian's mind clicked to register the raging sound of boots stomping over wood just in time to see one of the crew members run down the stairs, speeding right towards them. The cook jumped to his feet and caught words that Kessian couldn't hear, and before he realized it, there were hands on his arms hauling him to his feet. Vaguely his ears caught a hissed "hide, hide, the orlop deck — the cargo hold!" not that it made any sense to him.

Another hand caught his arm and the ship flashed across his vision. Worn timbers and creaky stairs, ropes coiled on the ground, his bared feet stumbling on a candle rolling haphazardly. The hand didn't let go of his arm. It pulled him forward past opened crates and sealed cargo, eventually hauling him behind a set of barrels stacked against the corner. Then it was dark, and cramped, and wet. Briefly, Kessian mourned for the fire, until he realized it was Jorgoff that had shoved himself into the space with him. Blinking the blurriness from his eyes, Kessian's face screwed up with betrayal and rage, the feelings in his chest satisfying his need for heat. His eyes stared into the face of his servant, who was watching out between the cracks in the containers.

Red eyes, aggravated by being dunked into ice water. Red nose, red cheeks, pale lips. His face looked a little swollen and he quivered slightly, goosebumps shot across his skin. Kessian knitted his brows and looked away, leaning to find a pocket of space between the barrels to peer out into the rest of the badly-lit cargo hold. No portholes here, just candles melted together into many-wicked clumps of old wax that burn with small flames.

They sat there for what felt like ages, Kessian's own breath rattling in his ears as he sat in nothing but water-weighted pants. There was still the constant buzz of the world outside assaulting his ears, but it was quieter now. Farther away. And thus, hearing the boots was easier this time— though now they were slower, and there were only two pairs.

"Quenisth be merciful, this is dreadful," He heard a voice moan, low and shuddering, like a banner was blowing in his throat and blocking the sound. Kessian couldn't see faces, but he could hear the wooden heels of the boots traipse across the planks of the ship. "Haven't had a real bed in days. And now this begettin' storm..."

"Would you quit whining?" A second voice hissed, higher and exasperated. "You sound like one of those fat Morrish tegs. If you don't like it, maybe you should go back to shoving rye up your nose, farm-boy."

The boots slowly drew nearer, and Kessian held his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jorgoff lean back against the wall.

"You don't have to be an ass about it. They aren't here, whoever yelled for us thought it'd be fun to piss with us. I'm allowed to be angry."

"Be angry without sounding like a screech owl. We could always tell the captain we're staying on the ship." The guard sounded thoughtful, and Kessian silently urged the first voice to protest. He hardly got the thought out before the opposition reached his ears.

"Are you knocked in the head? I'm not staying on a ship that's going to Shra. And they might still be in port, anyways."

"What, scared of the fat unicorns?" The second voice mocked, and their pair of boots came close — too close — but the first pair stopped.

"If you'd heard the stories I did, you wouldn't be so mouthy about them. Shrians are stupid for being so close to those things—"

"Hey! My brother-in-law is Shrian, so watch your Ninisal-damned mouth!"

There was a silence. A pregnant lull— no words were traded and no boots moved across creaking wooden floors. Breaths were held and arms stayed tucked against bare chests. Kessian didn't hear what the offending voice murmured, it was uttered so lightly... but whatever it was, it wasn't polite. Both pairs of boots suddenly darted towards the stairs— or more likely, the second pair was chasing the first, given the slurry of aggressive words being thrown at the first's back.

And once more, the area hiding the two boys fell into a vaguely buzzing silence.

And slowly, Kessian exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. And slowly, the prince looked at Jorgoff beside him. The older boy had shifted forwards again, looking out between the barrels. It took a moment for Kessian to build the courage to speak, uttering a meek "should we... wait until someone comes to get us?"

Jorgoff was silent for a moment. "Maybe. I didn't see where Yetsh went. Do you think there are more?"

"On the ship?" Kessian squinted his eyes. "Of course. And even more on the docks. Which is why I think we should wait here until someone comes to get us."

Another few wordless heartbeats followed his statement, quickly waning Kessian's patience down. He jerked a hand up, to show he was waiting for a response, but the servant wasn't paying attention. The older boy shifted and scrunched himself back through the small gap between barrel and deck wall, the splintered surface of the wooden barrels drawing little scratches along the water-softened skin of his pale belly. "Jor — Jorgoff!" Kessian hissed his indignation, but the long-limbed boy made no sign of recognition. Kessian shifted to watch, slotting his face into the gap between the stacked barrels.

Jorgoff took a few steps, willowy legs shaking but swift in their steady gait. Soon he broke into a jog and leaned a hand on one of the wooden pillars at the foot of the stairs, hanging off of it to peer up. He then turned back, looked at Kessian's barrels and nodded, long hair swinging around his face like a ripped rag— too dry to stick to skin, but too wet to look like hair. "It's safe," he spoke, approaching the barrels again. "Let's find Yetsh."

"You're going to get caught, Jorgoff." Kessian sat adamant, hugging his freezing torso. His fingertips were starting to turn blue.

"And you're going to freeze. So get up and let's at least go back to the galley. That halfling will never let the soldiers stay onboard." Jorgoff crouched, and Kessian stared back into his eyes. "...It's not a very good hiding place, anyway," the servant's tired face smiled, and then wider at Kessian's scowl.

"You picked it out, so that's on you," the prince grumbled, scooting out of the tight space carefully.

Jorgoff shook his head with a little chuckle, and reached out to help the little prince to his feet. "Mm," he hummed with a tilt of his head. "Your shoulder's turning purple, what'd you do?"

Kessian scoffed, the sound hitching with a 'k' noise in the back of his throat. "Yetsh crushed it with her giant meat-mits." Jorgoff frowned at him a bit, and only responded with a nod before turning his eyes back to their surroundings. "Yeah, they're gone," he murmured so softly Kessian wasn't sure which of them he was talking to. When the servant boy started to walk back towards the stairs the soldiers just chased each other up, Kessian leaned back and put his hands on his still-damp belly. A frown weighed on his face almost as heavily as the pressure weighed on his chest.

"I don't want to go up there, Jorgoff."

The servant stopped and looked back at him, his own brows furrowed. There was less patience on his face than Kessian was accustomed to, and the prince still couldn't meet the older boy's eyes. "You can't stay down here, Kessian. You'll freeze to death. I'll freeze to death. We have to go back to the galley."

"You really think they're gone?" Kessian lifted his chin, white-flamed fear flaring up into burning red anger in his chest. Kessian's eyes narrowed and his paled lip curled back to show his teeth. "Even you can't be that stupid!"

Something about Jorgoff shifted. Kessian wasn't sure what it was, his eyes were transfixed on the teen's wet hair. There was a silence that fell between them, heavy and cold like a water-laden blanket trying to drag them both down. It only stretched on for a few moments, and Jorgoff's head lowered slightly. Kessian could see the top of his head, and the skin between the water-logged locks of hair.

"You're the one who got us into this mess, Kessian. You have no room to call me stupid." Jorgoff's voice was quiet, but not soft. It w,as measured and restrained, and it shook Kessian to his core. For the first time since the servant boy pushed him off the dock they met eyes, and Kessian didn't recognize the light brown eyes that met his. Kessian couldn't recall ever seeing such an expression on Jorgoff's face. It looked almost alien, to him. It was so jarring that he couldn't even remember to be offended by words that would normally enrage him. Nor could he easily recognize what exactly this emotion was. It was... angry? Fed up? Irritated? ...Hard to place, Kessian concluded. Shocking. He knew how it made him feel, and it was not a pleasant feeling. The red anger in Kessian's chest sputtered out, falling down to little white embers.

"I—" Kessian started, but his voice betrayed him and broke off in a pitch. "Did you just call me stupid, Jorgoff?" They were the only words he could manage — Kessian's mind was blank, and the sound of rushing water was forcing its way into his head, taking up any room he had for thought. "Ho — how dare you?—"

"How dare I?" Jorgoff challenged, stepping up to stare down at Kessian. "What are you going to do, Kessian. Remember what Yetsh said? You aren't a prince out here, you have nobody to command anymore. I can dare whatever I want, and right now I'm going to dare to go upstairs so that I don't die, and I'm going to dare to drag you behind me if I have to." Jorgoff stared into Kessian's face for a moment, the words catching on his tongue. He was staring into big, dark brown eyes. He wondered if the little boy knew he looked so scared. Probably not — Kessian would never want to appear scared. The green prince cared about his reputation too much to look scared, out of all things. The words waiting on the servant's tongue quickly died, falling back down his throat as he took a deep breath. He looked down at Kessian, the little twelve-cycle-old-boy who bit off way more than he could chew and chucked himself into a hole so deep it may as well be a ravine... and he sighed.

"Come on, Kessian. Let's just go." Jorgoff held out his hand, watching Kessian's face. Watched the boy look down at his hand and lick his lip. Watched him lift a shaking hand and felt his cold and clammy fingers in his palm. Jorgoff relaxed a bit and let out a puff of air he hadn't noticed was trapped in his lungs. He curled his fingers around Kessian's, turned back towards the stairs, and marched up to the galley deck. Jorgoff didn't actually know if they'd gone or not. The closer they got to the top of the stairs, the more his doubt flared up in his mind, but still he didn't stop. He crested to the plank floor and strained his ears.

Nothing cried out. No one rushed forwards to seize him — nothing moved at all. The world fell dead silent in his ears for a moment before the white noise of the muffled world outside slowly returned with the slowly slowing rhythm of his rapidly pumping heart. He breathed the faintest "okay," to himself and continued to lead Kessian by the hand to the actual galley of this deck. They passed battened-down portholes and barrels and coils of rope and sputtering wicks in bowls of oil. They pass through a doorless frame and step back into the galley, and see the cook standing there beside Yetsh, who is sitting against a barrel by the fire, as if she had never moved. She had a blanket over her head, wrapped around her shivering form like some pathetic cloak.

Jorgoff breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't let himself stop to think much on what could have happened if Yetsh couldn't get hidden in time, but he knew. Jorgoff let go of Kessian's hand and walked over to near beside Yetsh. Her dark eyes were partially open, half black and half orange in the dimness of the fire-illuminated room. He kneeled in front of the woman he'd been friends with for so long and put his hand on her arm. Tension eased from his chest when her chin lifted and her eyes focused on him. "Mnph, you're just tired, aren't you? That's okay. Me too. You can sleep now, Yetsh. They should be gone," he murmured in a low tone, one that even he knew shook and trembled as it rode out of his throat.

Kessian watched Jorgoff turn and sit beside Yetsh, leaning against her blanket-clad shoulder. He looked away, instead turning his gaze to the cook who was doing his best to look busy, so that they didn't notice he was eavesdropping. That's what Kessian bet. Not that he really cared — he just didn't want to look at his two "companions." So instead, he tucked himself into a ball and scooted closer to the fire, letting its crackle overtake the sound of water and warm his bones, though he felt like he would never dry. Soon, morbid thoughts consumed his mind as he sat with an aching throat and blank gaze, vaguely watching the wood of the ship twist into faces in the shadows of all the flickering firelight does not quite reach. And there they sat in silence, energy spent and hearts pushed past their limits.

Somewhere outside, on the deck of the ship, a frazzled captain ordered an unhappy crew to hoist the anchor and make for Shra, storm be damned. He'd only just kicked the last stubborn guard off of his ship, not that all of them were eager to stay anyway. Two of them cased each other right off the ship, nearly falling into the hungry Maw of the Serpent below. Malik pulled the boarding plank up himself, scowled up into the freezing rain, stomped up the stairs to the quarter deck, and jerked a stumpy finger towards the river's slithering body ahead of them. "Get my ship out of here before Gri'shena's bad luck shoves us down Ninsal's gullet!"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, dear reader, for taking interest in my work "Mirys: The Green Prince I."
> 
> This book is a work in progress, and will be updated as I release new chapters on all sites the book is available on.
> 
> I am very grateful to you for taking the time to read it, and I hope that you check back occasionally to read up on new chapters! This world is my passion, and this book is only the first of this series — which is the first series of many that take place in this fictional world.
> 
> Thank you very much for your interest and dedication!


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